


Hollywood Ending

by wagamiller



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, Reunions, Witness Protection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-08 17:45:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7767271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wagamiller/pseuds/wagamiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is it really so much to ask just to run into Amy Santiago's arms in slow motion?</p><p>[ post season three ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I just got into this show and this pairing, so the sensible thing to do would probably have been like a short oneshot or something. So yeah, here comes like 25,000 words instead. Oops? 
> 
> If you're someone who prefers to wait and read things when they're complete, then it shouldn't be long until this whole thing is up. It's all written, I just need to polish up the later content.
> 
> Apologies in advance for -- way too many movie references, any typos, probably some stray Briticisms, wholly inaccurate details about witness protection, and a couple of stray Game of Thrones S6 spoilers.

While Larry goes about his boring life – eating and sleeping and working and melting a little in the Florida sun – Jake daydreams about going home.

Like, all the time.

At first, his homecoming is preceded by a high speed car chase (into oncoming traffic obviously _)_ but this is Florida so pretty soon he realises that driving in flip-flops is the actual worst. After that he opts for a good old-fashioned shoot-out instead, complete with him in the NYPD windbreaker he’s starting to miss so damn much, his badge back round his neck where it belongs. Whatever the scenario, the epically dramatic stand-off always ends the same way – with Figgis caught and cuffed, conveniently lying face-down on the ground because Jake still hasn’t decided what kind of face to give the sonofabitch yet.

“It’s all I think about,” he tells Holt one night around a month after their arrival in Florida, when he’s had too much to drink and not enough to eat and he misses home so much it’s an actual physical ache under his ribs. “Literally the only thing.”

“All you think about is what Jimmy Figgis looks like?”

“No,” Jake says, idly waving a hand, “I mean yeah, I do think about that. Like, right now I’m working with a mixture of Jason Statham and Chris Noth but it definitely isn’t perfect–”

“I’m unfamiliar with those gentlemen.”

“Well whatever he looks like, you gotta admit you imagine catching him. C’mon, Captain–”

“Greg,” Holt reminds him sternly, even though they’re entirely alone and his new home has been swept for bugs three times already. “My name is–”

“Right, Greg, whatever. I mean, I do know that we won’t actually be the ones to bring in that hideous Statham-Noth hybrid, but you cannot tell me you don’t think about it.”

“I … do think about it.” Holt runs his thumb over the bare skin where his wedding ring should be, huffing a quiet sigh. “I think about it all the time, Larry. All the damn time.”

“Exactly,” Jake agrees quietly, taking a long draw from his beer. “Me too.”

Spoiler alert: he’s lying.

Catching Figgis does feature in his fantasies, along with the familiar snap of cuffs and the perfect recitation of his Miranda rights (Jake really misses being a cop, okay?) but it’s hardly all he thinks about. Most of his daydreams are something else entirely – sweeter, purer, and yes, better than even the most dramatic imaginary takedown in the history of law enforcement.

Most of his daydreams are _Amy._

They are timbre of her voice after a long shift. The softness of her skin in the morning. The way her ponytail swings over her shoulder when she runs full tilt after a perp. All he thinks about is seeing her again. That’s all. Just seeing her again.

In a dramatically awesome way, obviously.

Like, usually he imagines running to her in slow motion across an airport runway, his sneakers bouncing up off the hard tarmac, no damn flip flops in sight. A kickass score – some booming Giacchino piece – is always playing as he runs, hitting the crescendo right when they finally collide. And when she’s in his arms at last, trembling and laughing, he picks her up, kisses her, and swings her around in one big haphazard circle. Someone usually applauds. Sometimes he cries. It’s always, always, perfect.

He wants it so badly – wants her so badly.

“I miss her,” Jake says after a moment, just as Holt stands and takes his empty beer from his numb hands. “Amy.” His voice catches on her name because he hasn’t said it out loud in weeks and that is all kinds of wrong. “All the time. That’s what I meant – that’s really all I think about–”

Holt stops on the threshold of his kitchen, his shoulders dropping ever so slightly.

“I just ... I wonder what she’s doing, y’know?” Jake blinks hard against the sudden burn behind his eyes. “I hate not knowing. Even stupid stuff, like what she ate for breakfast. I just–”

“I know,” Holt says quietly, from the doorway. “I also ... miss Kevin.” His voice wavers minutely, but for him that’s practically a breakdown. “Immensely.”

“I mean, I’m dealing,” Jake says quickly, because shit just got very real and he is definitely not ready to burst into tears in front of the Captain. Crying is strictly a solo activity, for when he’s home and it’s late and his bed’s too big, and he remembers that Amy’s not going to be there in the morning. “It’s not really _all_ I think about. I mean – it’s – it’s probably like eighty percent thinking about Amy, twenty percent wondering what Figgis looks like slash imagining his eventual arrest.”

“Here.” Holt returns with a bottle of water in hand, tossing it to Jake. His expression hasn’t changed but somehow he still manages to look like he knows Jake’s lying. (Which he so is, by the way. The split is much closer to ninety-five percent Amy, five percent everything else.) “I think you’ve had enough for one night. Why don’t you go home, get some rest?”

“Yes, sir.” It slips out by mistake and Jake winces, expecting a stern reminder that Greg is not Larry’s Commanding Officer and does not require such a mode of address.

But Holt just nods and says, quietly, “Dismissed.”

\--

After a couple more months in Florida, Jake is no closer to deciding on a suitable face for Jimmy Figgis. He’s definitely closer to losing it though, that’s for sure.

Since May he’s solved exactly three cases, namely: who was putting their garbage in Mrs Lieberman’s trash (the Andersons three doors down), whether Angie Taggart was really having an affair (actually no, that dude who turns up every afternoon really is just teaching her piano) and most recently, why his own lawn is dead and brown and gross (turns out you gotta water lawns, who knew?)

He hasn’t signed an arrest report in forever. Sometimes he writes out his real signature, just to make sure he still can, then burns the paper in his yard afterward. The stinging behind his eyes is just from the smoke, that’s all.

So yeah, he’s not doing too good.

In no particular order, he misses:

  * Detective Amy Santiago, The First of Her Name, Queen of the Nine-Nine
  * His own bed
  * Amy’s bed
  * All the sex he’s not having in his own bed right now (see also: Amy’s bed)
  * The Nine-Nine and every single person in it. Even the perps in lockup, at this point
  * His Mom
  * His Dad’s ongoing attempts to reconnect. Maybe.
  * Brooklyn (even the boiled garbage smell of the city in summertime)
  * _The Small Council -_ his epic, mostly Game of Thrones-related group chat with some of Amy’s brothers
  * Pizza (which deserves it’s own placing on the list above all other takeout)
  * Decent take out in general


  * DETECTIVE


  * AMY


  * SANTIAGO



So … everything, basically.

It’s the not knowing that’s still, categorically, the worst thing ever. He spends whole nights awake, just wondering how Amy’s day went. If she remembered to eat dinner. If she smoked any of the emergency cigarettes hidden in the tampon box in her purse. If she’s lying awake right now, just like he is, staring at the empty side of the bed. Some nights, when he’s really scared or really tired or both, he lets himself imagine that she’s not. That maybe she’s realised she doesn’t miss him, doesn’t need him. He wouldn’t blame her. (She’s Orangina.)

On the plus side, literally the only thing on the plus side, his slo-mo airport reunion fantasy is off the charts awesome at this point. There are a hundred little variations – like him running with a limp, full Laura Dern in Jurassic Park style, because, _cool,_ right? – but no matter what, the ending never changes. He always runs to her, always picks her up and always, always, spins her round until he’s not scared anymore because she’s laughing into his ear and he remembers that she loves him. _So much._

Usually he imagines it all going down in the dead heat of summer, because that is right now and right now is exactly when he wants to go home. Sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly pessimistic, the sunshine turns cooler and there’s a crunch of fall leaves under his feet as he runs to her. He’s pretty sure airports don’t have fallen leaves lying around their runways but whatever, it’s his fantasy, okay? Airports also don’t have movie scores playing on loud speaker but he makes the rules and he says they do.

There’s only one time where he imagines rain, splashing huge puddles as he rushes towards her. Her dress is plastered to her skin and her hair’s in her eyes and he’s definitely fallen asleep in front of the TV because he’s saying, “I wrote you three hundred and sixty five letters!” He jolts awake on his couch then, the coldest he’s been since he set foot in Florida because three hundred and sixty five is a fucking _year_ and he can’t even think about being away from her that long.

\--

As it happens, he doesn’t even see fall in Florida because The Call (capital T, capital C because – so damn _important)_ comes in on the first day of September.

Their Witness Protection handler, Agent Smith, meets them in an empty Travel Agent’s office and quietly tells them the plan. He also tells them please, no Matrix jokes, which is going to be tough.

But anyway, the plan – basically, it’s not all over yet. But it could be. Soon.

And they can _help._

Jake’s leg bounces incessantly under the table as their handler outlines the proposal – starting with Jake and Holt’s location being leaked to a suspected mole in Major Crimes. If the squad is right, and Jake’s heart jumps into his throat at the realisation that this is the Nine-Nine’s play, not the FBI’s, then the news will reach Figgis and when he sends someone to pick them up, they’ll know the rest of their intel is good. It’s a domino rally, a series of if-thens that start with the guy their location will go to and ends with – actual daydream come true – Figgis in handcuffs.

“But if he decides to just send someone to kill us right here in Florida?” Holt asks, when they’ve gone over the idea.

“Then you die,” Agent Smith says, so deadpan at this point that it’s going to be close to impossible for Jake to abide by the no Matrix references rule.

“But everything we know about Figgis says he’d want to kill us himself,” Jake says, waving off the idea. “This is so beyond personal for him now.”

“That is true,” Holt agrees, “but if any of the other leads aren’t good–”

“Then Figgis gets away,” Smith says, staring at them impassively. “And, again, you probably die before we get to you.”

“But the squad think it’s the right play?” Jake asks because honestly, that’s all he needs.

“Yes,” Smith says, scanning for something in his notebook. “I believe the phrase I was given was … ‘ _a thousand pull-ups’_.”

Jake gasps, turning to Holt. “They’re so much worse than push-ups! Captain, Rosa must be beyond sure about this–”

“Be that as it may, there are multiple risks at play here,” Smith interrupts, “and we should discuss them all in detail.”

After a ten minute rundown of all the ways this could go wrong (Jake kind of doesn’t hear anything after _death_ but apparently there’s enough to fill ten minutes), he gets the hint – WITSEC really, really don’t like the idea.

The thing is – Jake really, really, doesn’t give a shit.

“Let’s do it.”

“The proposal does go against the entire ethos of their organisation,” Holt says thoughtfully, nodding at Smith. “Leaking the location of a subject in protective–”

“But they don’t know the squad like we do!” Jake says, turning right round in his chair to stare at Holt. “Captain, c’mon! You know they wouldn’t suggest this – Amy definitely wouldn’t let them suggest this – if they didn’t think we’d be–”

“You misunderstand me,” Holt interrupts, holding up a hand. “I’m completely onboard with the idea.”

“Think about – wait, you’re onboard?!”

“Of course. I was merely acknowledging Agent Smith’s difficulty.”

“We’re – we’re actually doing this?”

“I want to go home, Jake.”

And that’s that, really.

“You heard the Captain,” Jake says, turning back to Agent Smith. “We’re taking the red pill.”

\--

“Ow.” Jake jolts into consciousness with a groan, and a curse, and a splitting headache. “This is really happening, huh?”

“Peralta.” Holt’s voice comes to him from nearby, low and worried. “Are you–”

“I’m fine,” Jake says, hauling himself upright and feeling the restraining pinch of zip ties at his hands and ankles. He blinks furiously against scratchy cotton of his blindfold, trying to sort his muddled memories into sense. “They got us, then.”

Waiting to be kidnapped had been, predictably, super weird. For three days he walked around on tenterhooks, definitely peeing less than usual because being abducted from the bathroom would categorically be the worst thing ever. Every night he told himself was definitely, positively, his last night. In Florida! Not like on Earth, or anything. He’s got total faith in the squad.

Then at long last, this afternoon there’d been a tinkling of broken glass and two extremely enormous guys in his living room – neck tattoos, wifebeaters on, the whole deal. Jake had to clamp his lips shut to stop from smiling because, _finally._ Still, he fought back a little since cops on the run from mass murderers generally do not love being kidnapped by scary hired goons, until a well placed blow to the side of his head put paid to his half-hearted resistance. And gifted him with this headache, apparently.

“Hey, are we moving or am I just super woozy right now?”

“We’re moving,” Holt replies in an undertone. “They loaded us right into a small truck directly from our houses. You’ve only been out approximately two minutes.”

“How many–”

“Just the two who picked us up, both up front in the driver’s cab.”

“Are you–”

“Blindfolded, too? Of course.”

“Then how d’you know there’s just two of them?”

“I counted only two distinct sets of footfalls.”

“Seriously? That is so cool.”

“Focus, Peralta.”

“Right, sorry. Okay. So … so far, so good.”

“So far, so good.”

Jake pushes out a breath. “Weird day, huh, Greg?”

“Extremely, Larry.”

\--

They drive for a half hour or so, it’s kind of hard to tell in the total darkness. Jake spends the entire time focused on breathing because apparently it’s no longer an autonomic function, it takes actual effort now. So much fucking effort. Somewhere in New York, the squad – his friends, his best friend, the woman he loves more than anything in the world – are all right in the middle of a dangerous raid (hopefully of a cool shadowy abandoned warehouse). Anything could be happening. Anyone could be hurt.

Somewhere in the back of his mind Jake knows he should probably be at least a little scared about, y’know, dying in the back of this truck before the FBI gets to him. But there’s no room in his brain for that – he’s too consumed with thoughts of the squad, and of Amy.

God, _Amy._ He can’t lose her now. They’re so close to that epic slow motion reunion. And he really, really needs to tell her about Holt’s distinct footfall thing, she’ll be so freaking impressed.

He’s starting to wish that Figgis’ guys had gagged him so he could just let himself scream like he wants to when the truck stops abruptly and he realises he does have a little space in his brain to be scared of dying after all. A whole lot of space.

“Shit,” he says quietly, really hoping he’s not about to die because he’s given a lot of thought to his last words over the years and that would be a terrible choice. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He sucks in a couple of panicked breaths, listening to the sounds of a scuffle, then a few muffled shouts that die out suddenly. After a couple of minutes of terrifying silence, the door busts open and someone jumps inside, rough hands tugging away the blindfold from his eyes. Jake blinks furiously, his rescuer slash potential murderer nothing but a dark silhouette against the sunlight now streaming in through the open doors. Then his eyes adjust and he sees it – the gleam of a badge and the tall yellow letters on the guy’s vest. FBI.

“Oh thank God,” he mutters, sagging against Holt, who is breathing hard and fast beside him.

“Hey, fellas,” the agent says, flashing them a wide smile of perfect white teeth as he flips open a penknife to break their restraints. God, he’s cool. “You must be Holt and Peralta. I’m Special Agent Garcia.”

Soon they’re stumbling out of the truck onto a dusty side road and Jake spots their kidnappers being loaded into one of the unmarked SUVs arranged around them. He can’t help himself, he tips one of them a smug wink. It’s possible the guy just thinks he’s squinting in the dazzling sunlight. Whatever.

“Enjoy prison,” he calls brightly, before turning to Garcia. “So? D’you guys know what went down–”

“Figgis is in custody,” Garcia explains, grinning again. “Along with the rest of his operation.”

“And the squad?” Holt asks. “That is, my precinct – the Nine-Nine? They were one of the teams involved in–”

“All I know is Figgis is down, and there were no fatalities,” Garcia says, clapping Holt on the shoulder. “That’s all the detail I got right now.”

“No fatalities.” Jake sits down on the back of the open truck because his legs have apparently just lost the ability to support his weight. “That’s...”

“Good, Jake,” Holt fills in, sitting down beside him. “That’s good.”

“It’s not enough,” Jake says, unable to stop the hint of panic from creeping into his voice. “We need to get home. I need to _know_ –”

“Agent,” Holt calls, beckoning their rescuer back over. “We really need to get back to New York.”

“‘Figured you might say that,” Garcia says, offering Jake a hand and pulling him back to his feet.

Jake rubs his wrists where the zip ties cut into the skin.“We’ve got no ID, so I don’t know how–”

“Buddy, we’re the FBI,” Garcia interrupts, waving a hand. “We got you covered.”

Jake gapes at him, excitement somehow squeezing in through all the blind panic. “You have your own plane?!”

“Nope,” Garcia says with a laugh, drawing an envelope out of a pocket in his vest. “But I do have two tickets to New York with your names on them – your real names.”

“When–”

“Flight leaves in an hour.” He nods to two agents in business suits that are not at all weather appropriate for this state. “These agents will escort you, they’re flying back to the New York Field Office.”

The agents step forward at once, in perfect sync.

“God, you guys are so cool.”

Holt shakes Garcia’s hand, flashing a rare smile. “What my colleague means to say is thank you.”

“Yes,” Jake says, when it’s his turn to shake Garcia’s hand. “Absolutely. Thank you so much. What’s your first name, by the way? Because I am legit gonna name my firstborn after you.”

“Actually it’s Larry.”

“Yep, nevermind.”

\--

There’s a small section in the right hand corner of his boarding pass that says, quite plainly: PERALTA, JACOB. Jake cannot stop looking at it.

For the three hours and thirty seven interminable minutes of their flight, he stares at his name, gripping his armrest until his fingers ache and repeating the phrase _no fatalities_ over and over in his head. By the time the Captain signals that they’re landing, it’s merged into some sort of strange Hodor-style jumble of nonsense, and Jake is freaking the hell out. It’s actually almost over. At last, at last, at last.

“Home,” Holt says simply, peering out of the tiny airplane window at the glowing lights below, getting larger every second.

“Yeah,” Jake says quietly, as they finally touch down. “Home.” The plane shudders, brakes screeching, and Jake finds he’s still trembling long after they come to a stop at the gate.

A skybridge goes out to their plane, totally shattering the basic premise of running to Amy across the runway tarmac. After all these months of imagining their reunion, Jake is only vaguely surprised to find he doesn’t actually care how it happens. He just wants her – safe and well and _here_ , right now.

The second the Fasten Seatbelt light blinks off, he is out of his seat, Holt not far behind. Their FBI escorts move almost as quickly, escorting them off the plane ahead of everyone else. Jake doesn’t even spare a second to feel like the VIP that every other passenger seems to assume he is. Actually, it’s possible they think he’s getting taken away by Air Marshals. Whatever. They don’t matter.

The only person that matters is waiting in Arrivals right now. She _has_ to be waiting in Arrivals right now. Jake pushes aside the alternatives that plagued him through the flight and focuses on that. Amy is here, and she is waiting for him, and in about two minutes time he’s going to see her again.

They hurry through the airport, flanked by their FBI escorts, and Jake just about stops himself from all out running when he finally sees the exit door. He tugs nervously at his rumpled t-shirt, wishing it wasn’t quite so sweaty and gross, but then the doors are sliding open and just like that, he doesn’t give a crap what he’s wearing, or that his hair’s a mess, or that he’s got fucking flip flops on. Well, he cares a little bit about the flip flops but – no time!

Jake steps into a mass of airport Sedan drivers and waiting families, scanning the crowd eagerly for a flash of shiny dark hair, a familiar smile. When he sees Charles, he stops so suddenly that Holt almost walks right into him.

He starts to smile, to raise his hand in a wave, and that’s when it hits him.

Charles is not smiling.

Because Amy is not here.

And it’s so cruel, it’s so unbelievably cruel because this isn’t his fantasy, it’s his worst nightmare and yet it’s happening in slow motion just the same. Jake knows he’s running towards Charles – knows he’s _sprinting_ – but it doesn’t feel like it. The air feels solid around him, holding him back, and the only soundtrack is his heartbeat, thudding in his chest and roaring in his ears.

“Where is she?” He stutters to a stop in front of Charles, looking wildly around like maybe this is all some kind of bit, and Amy’s going to jump out any second. “Charles–”

“She’s gonna be okay,” Charles says quickly and Jake wants to scream that of course she’s gonna be okay, how could she be anything else, she can’t, she’s not – _no fatalities._

“What–” He grabs the front of Boyle’s windbreaker, curling the plastic under his fists. “She’s–”

“She’s in the hospital,” Charles says, closing his hands over Jake’s and tugging them free from his jacket. “Hey, hey! Listen to me. She’s in the hospital and she’s gonna be okay.”

It doesn’t even register. “She’s – she’s _hurt_?”

“It’s just – she’s got bruised ribs, and she needed a couple of stitches, and her shoulder is–”

Just. It’s just _all_ that. Jake snatches his hands free from Charles. “What the hell happened?”

“Boyle?” Holt says sharply as he catches up to them. “Where’s Santiago? We expected–”

“She’s in the hospital,” Jake repeats, turning to Holt like he’s somehow going to be able to fix this. “Oh God, she’s–”

“Boyle, tell us exactly what happened,” Holt says, raising a hand to hold off the approach of the FBI Agents from the plane. “Start at the beginning.”

“Figgis’ guys got spooked. We’re not – we don’t know why, exactly,” Boyle explains, eyes settling on Holt. Jake kind of wishes Charles would look at him and kind of wishes he wouldn’t, all at the same time. “It was nobody’s call – we all agreed we had to go in early – all the teams weren’t in position yet, but–”

“But you had no choice,” Holt supplies. “Go on.”

“There were more guys than we anticipated and the plans we had for the building were old – the layout was all wrong. We got ‘em all in the end but – but Amy and Rosa got cornered–”

“Rosa?” Jake’s genuinely not sure how he’s still standing. “Is she–”

“Totally fine! She’s totally fine, Jake. Few stitches, that’s all.”

“Shit.”

“She’s fine, really. She picked a chunk of glass right out of her arm herself. It was so gross.”

“And Amy–”

“She was covering Rosa and then – I don’t know exactly – Figgis tried to run, they fought and he knocked her down some stairs–”

“That sonofabitch–”

“She got up, Jake. She got right back up – caught up to Figgis – _she_ was the one who got the cuffs on him.”

“She was?”

“Yeah,” Charles says, with a small smile. “She sure was.”

Jake opens his mouth to say something glib, something like, “That’s my girl!” but what comes out is a choked cry, caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

“Hey.” Charles grabs Jake’s forearm. “She’s okay, Jake.”

“Pretty sure I’m not,” Jake says, voice breaking. “Let’s go, I need–”

“Woah, hold on there.” The older of the dark-suited FBI Agents (who Jake has most definitely nicknamed K) steps forward, hands raised. “We need to debrief you and your Captain before we can release–”

Jake scoffs, already looking for the exit. “Yeah, that is _not_ happening right now.”

“You can’t just leave,” the second agent (J, obviously) says, moving to block Jake’s path. “You’ve been in WITSEC since May–”

“Exactly! I haven’t seen my girlfriend in two months and forty three days–”

“Wouldn’t that actually be three months and–”

“Oh my god, so not the point!” Jake raises his fist to his mouth, biting down on his knuckles for a second. “The point is that the love of my life is in the hospital right now–”

“Wow, Jake–”

“Not now, Charles.”

“Sorry.”

“So if you think I’m gonna sit down and talk about my crappy Florida life with you for three hours while my _real_ life is actually happening–”

“I understand that you’re anxious to see–”

“Agent, if I may,” Holt says, stepping in smoothly, “anxious is not the right word here.” He raises his hand to his chest. “ _I_ am anxious to see my husband. My husband who is not currently, to my knowledge, injured and in a hospital. Detective Peralta is not _anxious,_ he is–”

“Straight up losing his shit,” Jake supplies. The hyperventilation he’s got going on is super inconvenient in that he kind of can’t breathe but totally helpful in proving his point.

“I was going to say incredibly distressed but yes, that is also an accurate assessment,” Holt says, nodding. “I am more than willing to attend my debriefing now, although I’d appreciate it if you would contact my husband so he can meet me there.”

“He’s already on his way to the FBI,” Boyle puts in, raising his hand like he’s in class. “We figured you’d be taken straight there. I just came here for Jake–”

“Because _I_ have to go to the hospital,” Jake puts in, looking pleadingly towards the agents. “Right now.”

“If you’re willing to allow him to go now, I’m certain that Detective Peralta will be happy to attend a debrief tomorrow–”

“Cross my heart,” Jake says, actually doing the action. “No takebacks. C’mon, K, _please_.”

“Who’s K?”

“Oh – uh – not important.” He flashes the older agent a hopeful smile. “What is important is you letting me leave … because despite your frosty exterior you really do believe in love! Right?”

“Tomorrow,” K says, smiling even as he raises a warning finger at Jake. “A full debrief.”

“Yes! Can’t wait,” Jake says, already eyeing the exits. “Sounds like so much fun paperwork.”

“For the record, I really do hope she’s okay,” K says, shaking Jake’s hand. “Your girlfriend.”

“Her name is Amy,” he says, because it seems important somehow. Her name is Amy Santiago and his name is Jake Peralta and that matters. So damn much.

“Amy.” K smiles. “Go see her, then.”

“Right.” Jake sucks in a breath. “Yeah.” He shakes J’s hand as well and then turns to Holt, feeling suddenly adrift. After all these months with only each other for company, it feels strange not to know when he’ll see him again. “Captain–”

“Go,” Holt says simply. “Santiago’s waiting for you.” He smiles suddenly, just a quick flash of teeth. “And you know how she feels about punctuality.”

This time, Jake does manage to say, “That’s my girl!”

\--


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're all super nice and I can't handle it. Thank you so much.
> 
> All apologies from the previous chapter still apply, and now let's add apols for the total lack of any medical knowledge that didn't come from tv.

Jake steals Charles’ phone the second they get onto the freeway, calling up Google Maps to watch the little blue dot inching closer to their destination – to Amy. Forty three more minutes. Thirty six. Forty seven (wrong turn – damn it, Boyle!) Thirty three. Twenty one. Fifteen.

Charles talks the whole way, filling him in on everything he’s missed these past few months – progress on the adoption, the squad’s non stop investigation into Figgis, the new pizza place in Flatbush that’s really shaking things up for his Weekly Pizza Blast. 

Ten minutes from the hospital Jake finally finds the courage to ask, “And Amy, she’s been doing okay?”

“What? No! Of course not,” Charles says, looking away from the road to frown at him. “She really missed you, Jake. She worked herself half to death to solve this case.”

“Please don’t say death,” Jake says quickly, his breath catching.

“Just a figure of speech!” Boyle says, wincing. “Sorry, sorry,! My bad. Poor choice of words. What I mean is … she didn’t give up, not for a second. She really loves you, Jake.”

Throat suddenly tight, Jake turns quickly to stare out of the window, letting the passing traffic blur into splashes of color, flashes of headlights. 

“She’ll be okay,” Charles says quietly, after a moment. “I promise.”

“I know.” Jake clears his throat. “It just … it _sucks_ , y’know?”

“Yeah,” Charles says, reaching blindly over to pat his shoulder and missing, winding up awkwardly patting his cheek instead. Although actually this is Charles so he might have been aiming for his cheek in the first place. 

“I missed you, buddy,” Jake says fondly, when Charles eventually pulls back his hand.

“No new BFF from Florida then? Not that I was worried–”

“Nope,” Jake says, pretending not to notice the tiny yelp of joy that Charles lets out. “Florida was the worst.”

“Well you’re home now,” Charles says, swinging the car towards the exit for the hospital at last.

“Almost,” Jake says, eyes on the blue dot on the map again. Four minutes from destination. Three. Two. One.

\--

There’s an unfamiliar young uniformed cop hovering by the Nurse’s Station on Amy’s floor. Another by the elevator. One at the end of the hallway.

Standard protection detail.

Probably just precautionary but it still makes Jake stop in his tracks, panic fluttering in his chest, up into his throat.

“Can I help you, sir?” the nearest officer asks, eyeing Jake warily.

“Uh – I’m looking for Amy Santiago, she’s–”

“Are you family?” the rookie asks, casually moving to block Jake’s path without really seeming like that’s what she’s doing. Jake spares a moment to be mildly impressed by her tactics. This kid can stay. A+ protection. Except for the part where he isn’t a threat.

“I’m her partner,” Jake says, looking around for someone he recognizes and wishing Charles hadn’t dropped him off to go park the car. “Work-wise and also life-wise. What I mean is, she’s my girlfriend. And I’m also a cop.” He’s definitely rambling and also definitely cannot stop. “I don’t have my badge, but–”

“It’s okay,” a familiar voice calls, and Jake spins around to see Terry hurrying over from the elevators despite a heavy limp, almost spilling the two coffees in his hand. “He’s one of ours.”

“Sarge!” Jake says, as Terry puts the coffees down and pulls him in for a hug so tight it hurts. “Where’s Amy? Is she–”

“She’s doing okay,” Terry says, abandoning the coffees as he leads Jake up the hallway. 

“Are you?” Jake counters, eyes on the leg Terry is favoring as he walks. 

“Oh yeah, no big deal,” Terry says, patting his hip idly. “Totally worth it.”

“Is anyone _not_ injured?”

“Charles came out of it just fine. He said his love for you filled him with the strength of ten men.”

“Of course he did.”

“It was ... pretty messy,” Terry says, suddenly looking anywhere but at Jake. “And – look, Jake, I was in command so–”

“Oh, what? C’mon, Sarge,” Jake interrupts, waving him off. “You were just doing your job. I’m not gonna blame you for anything here, you gotta know that.”

“Thanks, man.” Terry relaxes visibly, his shoulders dropping. “Honestly, I’ll be glad when the Captain’s back in command. Is he–”

“Debrief at the FBI,” Jake says, eyeing all the doors up ahead. “I got a pass because I had a teensy meltdown when Charles said Amy was hurt.”

“Her room is up there – third door on the left,” Terry says, following Jake’s gaze. “She’s been asking for you pretty much non-stop.”

“Right.” Jake runs a hand over his mouth, his throat suddenly dry. The teeny tiny cans of Coke on the plane feel like a long, long time ago. “Okay.”

“Go on.” Terry gives him a gentle nudge except this is Terry so it’s much more like a shove. 

Jake stumbles forwards a few steps, trying to regain his balance, and then he’s hurrying towards the door, wiping his palms on his shorts and trying to flatten his hair and smooth the creases in his t-shirt all at the same time. He just winds up kind of wafting his hands around vaguely and not actually doing anything at all.

Pausing for a second at her door, he presses his hand over his racing heart. All that time he spent imagining that airport hug, he can’t believe he didn’t think of a suitably awesome greeting. Damn it.

“C’mon,” he mumbles to himself, sucking in a deep breath. “Get it together, Peralta.”

Before he can think of something better than _iloveyouletsneverbeapartagainevereverever,_ the door swings open and Rosa steps out, jerking back slightly at the sight of him. There’s a white bandage wrapped around her upper arm but otherwise she’s exactly as he remembers her – unruly curls, dressed all in black, and ever so slightly terrifying. 

“Listen up,” she says, throwing her arm out across the threshold to bar his way. “She looks kinda bad. But it’s not bad. So don’t freak out, okay?”

It’s very, very definitely too late for that but he opts not to tell Rosa. “Sure thing.”

“Welcome back.” Her lips quirk upward slightly, just for a second. “We missed you.”

She hurries away before he can return the sentiment and then there’s hardly anything left separating him and Amy. No state lines, no WITSEC-mandated communication silence, just an open doorway and three paces. Jake squares his shoulders, takes a breath, and steps over the threshold to her room. 

The very first thing he thinks is that Rosa was dead wrong.

Amy doesn’t look bad. 

She looks _awful_. 

The second thing he thinks is that she is even more beautiful than he remembers, even now. 

(Because he’s a big sap and she’s the love of his life and it’s been a hell of day, okay?)

“Amy?” He pads quietly over to her bed, the silence of her room broken only by the sound of his damn sandals on the floor. Obviously. “You awake?”

Jake reaches out carefully and takes her hand in his. It’s cold. He frowns, his jaw suddenly tight with anger because Amy hates being cold and she’s been lying here injured for who knows how long, without him to warm her hands up, and that is not right. None of this is right. 

“Amy?” he repeats, and it takes everything in him to keep his voice light.

There’s a split in her bottom lip, standing out red against the pale pink remnants of her lip balm, and for a moment that’s all he can see. There’s gauze around one of her forearms and a bruise on her cheek, blossoming purple and black, but all he can focus on is that tiny little cut in her lip, and all he can comprehend right now is that someone made Amy bleed. 

“Jake?” Her eyes flutter open slowly and her hand clutches at his, her nails digging into his skin. 

“Yeah.” He opens his mouth again to say something impressive, something cool, but settles on the simplest and most important thing in the world right now – “ _Hi._ ”

“Hi,” she says softly, dropping her head to the side to look at him. When she smiles at him, it feels a little like solving a case, the way everything in him just fits right back together, perfect and whole. “You’re really here?” 

“Yeah.” He leans his other hand on the rail at her bedside and it is quite possibly the only thing keeping him upright right now because Amy Santiago is _smiling_ at him and her hands are warming under his and everything is going to be okay after all. “I’m really here.” 

She looks over his shoulder, frowning. “Where’s the Captain?”

Of course she’s asking about Holt during their emotional reunion. Of course she is. He rolls his eyes, so utterly charmed by her predictability. “FBI wanted to debrief him.”

“But not you?”

“I had someplace to be,” he says, which is a damn cool line that deserves a cool guy shrug to match it. He can’t quite pull it off. Nothing about him is cool right now.

Amy hums a little sigh, her eyes still fixed on his face. “You’re so _tan_ ,” she whispers, rubbing her thumb over the back of his hand.

“You’re so _pale_ ,” he counters, taking in her ashen face, the deep circles under her eyes. “How d’you feel?”

“Oh, I’ll be fine,” she says, waving her free hand. “I had body armor on.”

“Amy–”

“I mean – I bounced ... mostly. They said I can probably go home tomorrow–”

“Amy–”

“Okay, okay, fine. I feel exactly like I fell down a bunch of metal stairs,” she amends, and when she pulls a face and rolls her eyes at him he feels a rush of fierce, stupid, inexplicable joy because – there she is. There’s Amy Santiago. 

“I missed you so much,” he says in a rush, letting go of her hand to cup the unbruised side of her face instead, her soft skin achingly familiar under his hand. 

“I missed you too.” She presses her cheek into his palm and a tear slips from her eye, running down to his thumb. He wipes it away but more follow and then all of a sudden her lip is trembling and she’s crying these awful, little gasping sobs that he’ll never ever be able to forget. The sound shakes something loose inside him until he’s trembling all over, cold right down to his toes. 

“Hey, hey, please don’t cry,” he pleads, leaning right down until their foreheads are touching. He presses a kiss to her lips, short and sweet and not remotely what he imagined their first kiss would be like after all these months, but perfect anyway, just for being real. “It’s over. Everything’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, her voice a warm rush of breath against his lips. “I screwed up our reunion.”

“What?” He pulls back a little to frown at her. “You didn’t–”

“I did! I was supposed to run into your arms at the airport–”

“Wait, what?” A burst of laughter – real, actual genuine laughter – bubbles up in Jake’s chest. “Me too!”

“You too?”

“Yeah! I was gonna pick you up and swing you round–”

Amy splutters a laugh, tears forgotten. “Yeah!”

“In slow motion–”

“What? No, dummy, that’s not possible.” She pulls a face like he’s the biggest idiot she’s ever met. “At normal speed, obviously! That’s not–”

“I love you,” he blurts, grinning at the familiar exasperation on her face. “I really, really love you.”

“I love you too,” Amy says. Her lip is trembling again and that is … not acceptable. 

“Even though you’re ruining my slo-mo dreams with your scepticism,” he begins, heaving a put-upon sigh.

“Oh my god! It is literally not possible in real life, Jake,” she says, rising to the bait like he knew she would. “I mean–” When she sees his face she stops, realizing he’s messing with her, and then she’s shaking her head at him, stupidly charmed and trying not to be.

“Y’know what, this is better than slo-mo anyway,” he says, grinning. “Apart from the whole you being hurt part, obviously.”

“Because it’s real?”

“Bingo.” 

“C’mere.” She reaches up and grabs his t-shirt, pulling him in closer and kissing him again, harder this time, enough to break the cut in her lip open again. “Jake–”

“Oh, please keep saying that,” he mumbles against her lips, “I really missed the sound of my own name.” He winces, pulling back a little and pressing a finger to the blood welling up at her lip. “Wait, does that super conceited, ‘cause–”

“It’s okay.” Amy laughs, shaking her head. “I totally get it ... _Jake.”_

_“Amy,_ ” he replies, because she hasn’t gone three months without anyone saying her name but she has gone three months without _him_ saying her name and she’s looking at him like maybe that was almost as bad. 

She raises her eyebrows at him, and he recognises the familiar spark of challenge in her brown eyes. Before he has time to wonder where she’s going with this, she reaches out for his hand again and links their fingers together. Then she says, in a quiet throaty voice that he hasn’t heard in months, “ _Detective Peralta.”_

He groans. “Damn, I really missed you.”

\--

Jake only tells the story to one or two interns. Three tops. Maybe it also slips out to a couple of the nurses when he mentions getting knocked out this morning and they haul him into a side room for an exam. So … yeah, in less an hour the entire floor somehow magically knows about WITSEC and Figgis’ arrest and Amy and Jake’s cruel summer-long separation. Not his fault.

Everybody fusses over them like crazy, bringing extra pillows and better blankets for Amy, and aspirin and endless snacks for Jake. The nurses keep patting him on the shoulder, getting this soft look on their faces whenever they see him, and Amy’s doctor straight up calls him adorable when he asks if he can borrow a pen so he can write down everything she’s telling him. He doesn’t mind, since she agrees to let him stay overnight with Amy even though it’s completely against policy.

“We’re like … hospital celebrities,” he tells Amy, after the nurses sneak him yet another chocolate pudding. “It’s kinda embarrassing.” 

(Humblebrag, it’s actually so awesome.) 

“I don’t know what the big deal is,” Amy says, stealing his spoon and helping herself to some pudding. 

“C’mon, Amy, we’re basically a Hallmark movie,” Jake says, ripping the plastic off another spoon and digging into the cup, trying to knock her spoon out of the way. “And y’know everyone’s a sucker for a happy ending.”

“Yeah, but this is overkill, Jake. I mean, that kid from the Seven-Eight actually saluted me when he went off shift.”

“Of course he did! Ames, you took down _Jimmy ‘The Butcher’ Figgis_ today!” Jake shakes his head in wonder. He has, hands down, never been this proud of anyone, ever. “Medal of Valor coming your way for sure. You’re a freaking superhero.”

She rolls her eyes, shifting awkwardly to sit up higher against the raised head of her bed. “Wish I had superhuman healing skills.”

“So we could bone again ASAP?” he says, just to hear her laugh again. He’s got three months worth of that sound to earn back and he is absolutely starting now. “Because I have definitely missed that.”

She snorts, which is almost laughing and so totally counts. “Keep it in your pants, Peralta.”

“I’m wearing shorts,” he says, gesturing to his bare legs. “Florida style.”

“I hate them,” Amy says flatly, looking him over. “And the flip flops.”

He tips his head back and laughs. “Yeah, they’re the worst. I actually missed socks almost more than I missed you.”

Amy pulls a face, tossing the call button device from her bed at him. It misses him, swinging on its cord and dropping to dangle beside her bed. Jake puts it back in reach, taking the opportunity to lean in and kiss her again. Because he can. So there. He’s definitely going to be doing that a lot from now on. Especially since anything more is probably ruled out for now by her injured shoulder, and the bruised ribs, and the – anyway, the point is sex is off the table, and he’s got one more reason to hate Jimmy Figgis.

“Oh, hey, out of interest, what does Figgis actually look like?” he asks, dropping into the chair beside her bed. “I mean, before you broke his jaw when you arrested him.”

“That was unintentional!”

“Not complaining.”

“He’s ... tall?” Amy puffs out her cheeks, trying to remember. “White. Younger than he looked in the surveillance photos.”

“Wow, that’s so precise. I feel like I was there.”

“Shut up, I hit my head!”

“Hey, no fair. No using your injuries to make me feel bad about making fun of you.”

She cocks her head, like she’s actually considering it. Then she grins and says, “Nope. No deal.”

“Unbelievable,” he says, shaking his head at her. The effect of his outrage is totally ruined by the fond smile that he can’t shake, and he doesn’t care.

He’s about to say something unbelievably sappy, something about how he’s so unbelievably in love with her right now, when the door to Amy’s room opens and Gina walks in, an overnight bag in hand.

“Jacob Peralta, as I live and breathe,” she says grandly, stopping dead in the doorway. “Welcome back to civilisation, son!”

Jake cocks his head, fighting a smile and losing. “Please don’t call me son.”

She hurries into the room, dropping the bag at the foot of Amy’s bed and grabbing Jake’s hands, pulling him to his feet. “I missed you, kid.” 

It’s only a slight improvement on ‘son’ but he lets it slide. This is Gina after all, he’s gotta pick his battles.

“I missed you too,” he says, pulling her in for a quick hug and sparing a moment to be a tiny bit pissed that he can’t hug Amy like this right now. Still, as hugs go, this one is pretty awesome. He hasn’t been hugged in months. Which is fine, obviously. He definitely never fell asleep in Florida hugging the spare pillow from his bed. Nope.

When they part, Gina reaches for the bag she dropped and heaves it up onto Amy’s bed. “I brought you some overnight stuff, as requested,” she tells Amy, tugging out some clothes and dropping them in her lap. “Even though the state of your sleepwear collection wounds me deeply. And Jake, I brought some things for you too. Most importantly–”

“Sweet! Did you bring–”

“Most importantly,” she repeats in a much louder voice, ignoring his interruption, “I brought you this.” She spins back to face him, his cell phone now resting in the palm of her hand. “You are welcome.”

“Oh that’s almost definitely been cut off by now,” he says, flashing Amy a look over Gina’s shoulder. “But – uh – thanks?”

“Jake, please.” Gina rolls her eyes, holding the phone out even closer to him. “I kept this bad boy paid up and charged up, ready for your return.”

“Aw, you did?” He takes the phone, hitting the home button and grinning as the lock screen lights up, still set on a selfie of him and Amy. 

“Well, it was all I could do, y’know, to help,” Gina says, picking at a hangnail, “while everyone was busy saving you and the Captain.” 

“Thank you,” he says warmly, holding the phone to his heart. “Really.”

Gina brightens immediately, a smile tugging at her lips. “Oh and bee tee dubs, I read all your old message history from before you got shipped off to exile.”

“Of course you did.”

“Amy!” Gina spins to Amy and actually bows. “Damn girl, _those texts_!Who knew Amy Santiago liked–”

“Okay, goodnight, Gina,” Amy says, somehow managing to blush even through the bruising on her cheek. 

“Message received.” Gina tips her a wink, brushes a kiss against Jake’s cheek and heads out the door, the smirk never leaving her face. 

\--

“You look like you again,” Rosa says, taking in the sweats and clean t-shirt he’s changed into. “Good. Florida Jake looked weird.”

“That wasn’t Jake,” Jake says, watching Terry and Charles hover around Amy as they say goodnight. Her eyes are almost closed, exhaustion clear in every line of her face, but she’s smiling softly at something Charles is saying. “That was Larry.”

“Who’s Larry?”

“Larry was my WITSEC identity.”

“Ugh. Well, whatever. It was weird seeing your knees.”

“Yes it was,” he agrees, wiggling his toes in his socks. Because he can. Because he’s wearing socks again and it’s the actual best. Gina didn’t bring him any shoes but he’s taking his wins where he can. And socks are definitely a win.

“Anyway I’m – uh – glad you’re back.” Rosa clears her throat. “And … if you want to call in some of those pull-ups, I understand.”

“Nah,” Jake says, eyes still on Amy. He’s not sure he’s ever going be able to stop looking at her. But then he’s pretty sure he won’t ever want to, so it’s not exactly a problem. “You were doing your job. It was the right call. Besides, Amy would kill me if I went all super protective–”

Rosa snorts. “You gonna do it anyway?” 

“Oh, totally,” he says, without a hint of apology. “But on the down-low. So she won’t even notice.”

“I guarantee you that she will.”

“Yeah, she totally will. But I figure she’ll give me a pass for like a week, at least.” He sucks in a sharp breath, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his sweats. “Because today was like ... _really_ scary.”

“Yeah.” 

“I could’ve lost her–”

“You didn’t.”

“But I–”

“But you didn’t,” she repeats, with a punch to his arm.

“Right.” He nods, willing the knowledge to settle into his brain, to quiet the what-ifs that are multiplying every second. “But I didn’t.”

“There you go. Just keep remembering that.”

“Oh, I’m definitely trying to. And hey,” he adds, making an effort to lighten up because Amy is right there, sleepy and smiling, and all the what-ifs are just that – just what-ifs. “Pimento can come home now, right? Now it’s over.”

He can actually hear the smile in Rosa’s voice when she says, “I hope so.”

“Good.” Amy meets his eyes across the room, flashing him a tired smile as Terry starts fluffing her pillows. “Then it’s all good.”

\--

“Woah, I have like ten missed calls from my mom,” Jake says, checking his phone when everyone has finally said their goodbyes and gone home. “I guess she got my messages.” 

He gets up, pausing at the foot of Amy’s bed. “Hey, did someone call your Mom by the way?”

“Terry did, earlier,” Amy says, nodding. “She’s in Chicago visiting Mateo and the kids for the weekend, I think he just about managed to convince her she didn’t need to drop everything and fly home immediately.”

“Cool. I’ll just give her a quick call in the morning with an update.”

“Oh.” Amy fumbles the sleep-shirt in her hand, dropping it into her lap. “You probably shouldn’t.”

“C’mon.” Jake puts his hands over her feet through the blankets. “I know she’ll be totally over-protective for a while but that’s what moms are for–”

“It’s not that.” Amy picks up the shirt again and even though she’s undoing the buttons with only one hand it does not call for the amount of attention she’s giving it. “It’s just … _you_ shouldn’t call her.” 

“Uh – why?” 

“Well…” Amy blows out a breath, worrying her split lip between her teeth, making it bleed again. “Because – because she kind of thinks we broke up.”

“What?!” 

“I didn’t plan it!” she explains in a rush, the pinch of a frown appearing between her eyebrows. “There were just – there were _so_ many suspects and moles and we didn’t know if the FBI was still compromised – we had no idea if our phones were clean.”

“Oh.” He steps back a pace or two. 

“We all agreed we wouldn’t talk about the case or about WITSEC with _anyone_ and … I don’t know, I panicked! Us breaking up was the only thing I could think that’d make my Mom stop asking me about you.”

“Right.” The weight of it hits him at once – all those days they’ve been apart. All the things that have changed. “Of course.”

“Jake, I’m sorry, I–”

“No, no, it’s cool. I totally get it,” he says, in a high voice that doesn’t sound like his. He forces himself to nod, to smile. “It makes total sense. Great plan.”

“I didn’t want to,” she says brokenly, and he realises with a horrible jolt that she’s close to tears. “I wanted to talk to her about you – about how much I missed you. I didn’t like lying–”

“Hey, it’s okay,” he says, even though it’s not. It’s really, really not. He hurries up to her side and takes her hand, giving it a squeeze. That just makes her cry, which kind of makes him want to cry, which was so not the idea. 

“I promise I’ll call her first thing tomorrow and–”

“Amy, it’s okay. Really.” He leans in and presses a kiss to her forehead which is totally genius because it’s comforting for her but it also totally hides his face for a second, giving him time to force away the frown that’s tugging at his lips. “It sucks but it’s … fixable, right? No permanent damage.”

“Yeah.” She nods, sniffing back her tears. “You’re right. Totally fixable.”

The unspoken end of that sentence still seems to hang in the air. Fixable … but that doesn’t mean it isn’t broken right now.

Jake’s phone lights up in his hand, a picture of his Mom filling the screen. “Oh, I should take this,” he says, glad of the excuse to step out. He waves his phone vaguely towards Amy. “She’ll be freaking out.”

“Jake–”

“Be right back,” he says in a falsely cheerful voice, backing away quickly. 

The last thing he sees just as he closes the door is her face, clouded over and sad, and he feels like the biggest coward in the world.

“Mom?” 

The hallway is deserted, just a couple of night-shift nurses talking in low voices down the end, so there’s no-one around to hear the stuttering breath he gasps out when his mom says, “Jake?”

“Hi, Mom.” He leans against the wall, sliding down it to sit on the floor. “I know it’s the middle of the night, sorry, but–”

“Is it really over?” The hope in her voice just about wrecks him. “Are you home?!”

“Yeah, Mom.” He closes his eyes. “I’m home.”

That’s when she starts to cry.

“Mom?”

It goes on a while.

“Mom?”

Like, _a while._

“I’m just so glad you’re home, kiddo,” she says eventually, when she’s finally calmed down long enough for him to tell the whole story. “God, I was so worried about you. And about Amy. I can’t believe she’s in the hospital–”

“Her doctor said she can go home in the morning,” he says, tipping his head back to rest against the wall. “She’s doing okay.”

“And are you?”

“Uh–” Maybe because it’s late and he’s so far beyond tired right now, or maybe because it’s his mom and she’s got this way of asking just the right question in just the right way, whatever the reason, Jake kind of loses it a little.

“Not really,” he says, sucking in a breath that doesn’t quite take away the tightness in his chest. 

“Oh, honey,” his mom says softly, and even though she’s miles away it feels a little like she’s sitting right next to him, holding his hand. 

“Today’s been – it’s just–” He blows out a breath that crackles as static down the line. “It’s _a lot_ , you know?”

“Yeah.”

“Like, Amy’s whole family thinks we broke up. Which is totally crazy, right? I mean, it was a cover and I get it, I just – so much has changed and–” 

“Jake?”

“Yeah?”

“Slow down.”

“Right.” He rubs his aching eyes, exhaling slowly. “Sorry, I’m super tired right now, it’s making me a little crazy.”

“It’s two am, of course you’re tired.”

“I just – I missed her _so_ much, Mom, and I don’t know what to–”

“Jake,” she interrupts, fondly stern in that way that only moms can be. “Here’s a crazy idea – why don’t you stop talking to me about how much you missed Amy and actually go _be_ with Amy.” 

“Oh.” He looks up across the hall towards Amy’s door. Where she is. Not across the country. Just across the hall. God, he’s an idiot. “You’re right. You are so unbelievably right.”

He can hear the smile in her voice when she says, “Of course I’m right, hon, I’m your mother.”

“True that.”

“Hey, before you go,” she says in a voice that’s not at all casual. Suddenly, Jake knows where she’s going before she says it. “Your dad’s here if you want–”

“Oh, what? I can’t hear you – you’re breaking up – I can’t–”

“Jake.”

“I’m going through a tunnel–”

“No you’re not, you’re in the hospital!”

“Goodnight, Mom.”

She huffs a sigh that’s more than half a laugh. “Goodnight, Jake.”

After he hangs up, because apparently he’s too tired to think of self-preservation right now, Jake calls up the group message he has with the three of Amy’s brothers that live in New York. He closes one eye, kind of squinting at it, readying himself for a barrage of abuse. And there’s … nothing. No insults. No threats. Just silence, and four lines of text that hit him like a punch in the gut:

_Alex Santiago left the group [8:35 AM, May 19]_

_Danny Santiago left the group [09:10 AM, May 19]_

_Nic Santiago left the group [10:02 AM, May 19]_

_This group is now empty._

“Fixable,” he mutters, knocking his head hard against the wall behind him before pushing off and heading back to Amy. “All fixable.” 

\--

When Jake opens the door to Amy’s room, he finds her in the middle of a violent fight with her hospital gown. The gown is definitely winning.

“Stupid – idiotic – no – damn it!” 

“Hey, babe,” he says in a sing-song voice that makes her huff even louder. “Watcha doin?”

“I’m trying to get this paper monstrosity off of me,” Amy says, tugging at the gown again and then hissing a sudden gasp, grabbing at her shoulder. 

“Woah, woah, let me help,” he says, hurrying to her side and snatching up the old sleep shirt Gina brought her from out of her lap. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“I can – I should be able to do this–”

“Oh, totally,” he says, nodding, “but since I just happen to be here, how ‘bout you let me?”

“Fine,” she huffs, shoving her hair behind her ears.

It’s the double tuck but an angry one and it’s maybe the cutest thing Jake’s ever seen. He definitely doesn’t try and tell her that right now though.

“C’mere,” he says, and she leans forward with another huff, turning slightly so he can reach the ties at the back of her neck.

He brushes her hair aside, rolling the soft strands between his fingers for a moment and inhaling deeply. Her shampoo hasn’t changed. Something about that – the familiar coconut scent that he knows so well – makes his fingers suddenly numb.

“Hey, Jake,” Amy says quietly, when he drops the strings. There’s no trace of irritation left in her voice, only tiredness and something else – a sad sort of quiet that makes his stomach drop. “I really am sorry about my mom.”

“Aw, Ames.” He drops his hands from the gown at once, tucking his fist under her chin and turning her face up to look at him. She looks so sad, her mouth turned down into a perfect frown, and damn it, he’s _such_ a jackass. “Y’know I’m not mad at you, right?”

“Yes you are–”

“I’m really not.”

“You are,” she counters because apparently she can’t help but be competitive, even about this. “You’re upset and I get it, I–”

“I _was_ upset,” he interrupts, before she can talk herself into total panic. “I’m just – I’m crazy tired right now and you kind of caught me off guard, that’s all. I freaked out. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” She scrunches her nose, adorably confused. “You’re really okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging. “I mean, I’m definitely gonna need you to really, really stress to your entire family that it was not my idea–”

“There it is.” Amy almost smiles. 

“But otherwise I’m good … if you are?”

“Yeah.” This time, she does smile. “I’m good.”

“I know it must’ve been really crappy for you,” he says absently, leaning her gently forwards again and returning his attention to her gown. “Lying to your mom like that.”

“It was,” she says, with a quiet sigh that tugs at his heart. “Everything was really crappy without you.”

He clears his throat. “Samesies.”

Amy huffs a little laugh, her hair falling into her face from behind her ears. She looks utterly defenseless right now, her head bowed, her whole frame shivering slightly as he peels the gown away and the cool air hits her exposed back. But there’s no tension in her, he realises, with a rush of something like pure relief. Her shoulders are loose and relaxed under his hands because she _trusts_ him, completely and without question, and all the time and all the distance hasn’t changed that.

Dizzy with gratitude and/or the extreme lack of sleep he’s working with right now, Jake sways a little on the spot. It’s not a swoon, or anything. (Maybe it’s a bit of a swoon. He’s having a moment, okay?) He runs a finger slowly up her spine and she arches her back into his touch and it is just ... _awesome._ Smiling, he leans in and presses a kiss to the top of her spine, surprising a little laugh out of her before he peels the gown away from her front.

He’s ready for it – tells himself he’s ready for it – but he still sucks in a harsh breath at the sight of the enormous web of bruising on her left side. “Oh, Amy…”

“It looks worse than it is,” she says, hovering one arm over the mottled blue and black bruising, the other trying to cover her exposed chest. She tries a laugh, but it doesn’t sound real. “I mean, it only really hurts wherever the body armor wasn’t.” 

Jake just shakes his head, helping her into the long sleep-shirt Gina provided, careful not to jostle her injured shoulder. He’s careful, so, so, gentle, and the whole time his chest is tight with rage.

“Jake, your hands are shaking.”

“It’s just … he kicked you down a flight of stairs,” he says, trying to focus on the tiny buttons. “A _flight of stairs.”_

Amy ducks her head to make him look at her. “Actually it was two.”

“Not helping!”

“Sorry.”

“I just …” He drops his hands from her shirt and shoves them into his pockets, still shaking. “I really hate Figgis, that’s all.”

“He put you in Florida,” Amy counters. “I hated him first.”

“Not a competition, Amy.”

She scoffs. “You always say that when I’m winning.”

The last of his anger dissolves in a huff of laughter, and he cocks his head at her, amazed. It’s possible that Amy’s actually a little bit ... magic? A minute ago he was furious, sad, a little heartbroken, and now he can’t seem to stop smiling and he’s got no clue how she did it. Ten points to Gryffindor.

Shaking his head in wonder, Jake reaches out to straighten the collar on her shirt but changes his mind halfway, tugging on it instead to pull her gently forwards to him. Amy closes the last of the distance and kisses him soundly, humming a little satisfied sound in the back of her throat that he hasn’t heard in far, far too long. His knees actually almost give out – it always ruins him, that little whimper – so he steadies himself with a hand on her uninjured shoulder, the soft cotton of her nightshirt cool under his warm hand. He pulls back a little, kissing her once, twice, three more times. He’ll never get over the way she tilts her chin up to meet his lips every time, the way she wants him just as much as he wants her.

When they finally part, Amy leans back into her pillows with a sigh. “Uh … hey, also … I’m sorry that was the first time you saw my boobs again after a long absence.”

He splutters a delighted laugh. “Yeah, but...” he says, tugging the front of her shirt forward and making a show of peering inside, “still awesome, though.”

\--

While Amy dozes, Jake slips outside to check that he definitely, absolutely does not have to wake her up every two hours. Amy’s been pretty adamant that she doesn’t have a concussion but, as he points out to the nurse he corners by the stairwell, “That’s exactly what someone with a concussion _might_ say!”

“She’s showing no signs of concussion,” the nurse assures him. Her name-tag says Carol and she looks just like his mom, all laugh lines and home-dyed hair that’s not quite covering the grey. “Besides, waking patients up through the night is actually an outdated protocol.”

“What?! Now I feel like every single medical drama has been lying to me.”

She pats him on the shoulder. “Not on purpose, I’m sure.”

“Still, I should probably tweet Shonda–”

“You should get some sleep.” 

“Yes, better idea. I’ll just tweet her in the morning.”

Carol shakes her head fondly. “Goodnight, Detective.”

“Hey, how d’you know–”

“Oh, sweetie, everybody’s talking about you two.”

“I knew it!” he says, pointing a gleeful finger at her. Carol just rolls her eyes, shooing him away with the chart in her hand.

When Jake slips back into Amy’s room, he closes the door carefully, padding quietly inside. As it turns out, he didn’t need to be so cautious – Amy’s wide awake.

“Hey,” he says softly, peering at her wide eyes in the half-light. “You’re supposed to be asleep.”

“I woke up and you weren’t here.” She sounds strung out, like a tired kid, and the sound goes straight to Jake’s heart.

“Sorry,” he says, stopping beside her bed and brushing her hair back from her forehead. “I’m here now.” 

“Come _here_ now.” She shuffles over a little, hissing in pain, and then pats the tiny space beside her. It’s too small and he won’t really fit and that absolutely is not going to stop him. 

He pulls down the side-guard and climbs into the too small bed with it’s too small mattress, curling himself carefully around Amy. She smells like antiseptic and cotton and everything single thing he missed these past few months – her shampoo and her perfume and the sunscreen scent of her moisturiser. _Amy._ He buries his face into her neck, breathing in deeply.

Amy hums her approval at his nearness, and that sound – strung out and sleepy – settles as a warmth under his ribs, a lot like joy. He presses a gentle kiss to her cheek, nudging his way up across to her lips as he whispers, “Go to sleep, Ames.”

She does, slipping off almost immediately, lulled by his presence. Jake lies awake, though exhaustion is scratching at his eyelids, and watches her chest rise and fall until he stops being afraid that the motion might suddenly stop. Well, not exactly. Until he stops being actively terrified that it might, at least.

He dozes eventually, into dreams where Amy’s running to him at the airport and he’s walking the other way, a vaguely familiar pilot’s hat tucked under his arm. She shouts for him – screams for him – but when he eventually turns back all he says is, “Sorry, babe. Early flight. You understand, right?” 

Jake jolts upright then, clammy and gasping, and he’s not sure who is more startled – him or the person who just stepped into the room. He gasps, quickly assessing his escape routes, the window, the exit, thinking about Amy’s position and – oh, wait, the stranger’s in scrubs. He squints into the light spilling in from the hallway, just about making out the vaguely familiar face of one of the interns he saw trailing after Amy’s doctor earlier. Well. Thank fuck for that. He drops down onto his elbow, breathing out.

“Someone said you might need – oh.” The young Doctor shifts her weight, almost dropping the blanket in her hands as she takes in Jake half-sitting up, one hand hovering over Amy’s eyes so the light doesn’t wake her. “You’re – you’re not really supposed to share a patient’s bed, it’s an–”

“NYPD,” Jake blurts out, like that’s a reason. He blindly reaches for Amy’s badge from the table beside her bed, flashing it vaguely in the direction of the door. “ _Please.”_

Somehow, _somehow_ , it seems to work. 

The doctor’s expression softens immediately as she stares at Jake’s shaking hand, still holding out Amy’s badge. “I didn’t see you,” she whispers, and quietly backs out of the room.

Jake doesn’t breathe again until the door closes behind her, returning the room to darkness. He settles back down, his back aching, his knees pressed right up against the back of Amy’s. It’s awkward and cramped and he’s kind of sweaty and totally amped up but then Amy makes this soft little sigh in her sleep, perfectly content, and that’s all he needs to fall asleep smiling.

The next time he wakes, some indeterminable amount of time later, it’s that completely dark time of night when you can’t even see your hand in front of your face. He knows, because he tries. Hits himself in the face, actually. And then he hears it – somewhere, someone is screaming for help. 

Amy sleeps on, oblivious, as Jake listens to the sounds of someone coding down the hallway – the shrill blare of alarms, the pounding of feet, the calls for a crash team. He tightens his arm around Amy and holds his breath, trying not to imagine that scene happening here if things had been different. Still, he can’t quite stop himself. His damn imagination. 

It all ends in silence and Jake doesn’t know if that’s good news or bad but the one thing he does know that Amy is right here, sleeping soundly, _safe._ And he’s never leaving her again.

For the first time in this never-ending day, he lets himself cry.

\--


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all continue to be super nice and I continue to have no clue how to cope with your kindness. Thank you.

It is, quite possibly, the worst night’s sleep of Jake’s entire life.

(And he’s slept in some hella sketchy places, so that’s really saying something.)

Amy somehow manages to wakes up refreshed and cheerful, bright as the early morning light that’s seeping in through a gap in the blinds. She’s got a spectacular black eye and her hair’s a total mess, sweat damp and curling at the ends, and she is still unfairly gorgeous. Jake on the other hand looks like he’s coming off a ten day stakeout. In a dumpster, presumably. At least that’s what Amy says. And Amy’s nurses. And Amy’s doctor. And, well, the mirror agrees too.

Jake spends most of the morning napping, in between eating the pastries that Amy’s doctor – wonderful, wonderful woman – brings him in from the bakery down the street because apparently he waxed lyrical about New York bakeries to her at some point last night when he was delirious with exhaustion. She also sneaks a good cup of coffee for Amy from the pot in the Attendings’ Lounge because she’s a) an angel and b) a genius who realises that caffeine will stop Amy pestering her about being discharged for at least ten minutes.

Jake’s just dozing off in the chair beside Amy’s bed, arms folded across his chest, legs stretched out in front of him, when the telltale click of a camera phone intrudes on his peace. Cracking one eye open, he looks up towards the bed and catches Amy fiddling furiously with the button on the side of her phone as she tries to shut off the sound.

“Am I getting papped right now?” he says, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Sorry, sorry! You just – you looked so freaking cute sitting there like that,” she says, dropping the phone into her lap. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Ain’t no thang,” he says lazily, waving a hand. “Waking up to you is pretty much the awesomest thing ever.”

A smile tugs at her lips. But this is Amy Santiago, after all, so she still has to say, “That’s not a word, Jake.”

“Hey, I’m being super sweet here, just let me have it.”

“Fine. Just this once.”

He blinks. “Wow, you must’ve really missed me.”

“I did,” she says, chewing on her lip. “Even those dumb selfies you used to send me all the time–”

He holds up a hand. “Not dumb, but go on.”

“My phone ... it’s full of all these pictures of us, of _you,_ ” she says, folding back the corner of her cellphone case and then snapping it back into place. “And then you weren’t here and it just … stopped. Everything stopped, y’know?”

He does know. Oh, hell, does he know. It’s the exact feeling that haunted him all summer – a kind of a niggling pause in his head, like his entire life was buffering. The knowledge that she felt the same settles heavy on his chest, a confusing mixture of sadness and relief. It’s not at all what he’d have wished for her (Amy Santiago deserves only sunshine and rainbows and awesomely difficult cases) but still it heals something in him, an old and half-forgotten wound, to know that he really is someone worth missing.

“I understand,” he says, nodding. “In fact…” He jumps up from his chair, digging his phone out of his pocket and hurrying over to Amy’s bed.

“What? No!” Amy protests as he leans in to her side, holding his phone up high above them both. “C’mon, Jake, I have a black eye–”

“Ames,” he says quite seriously, turning to stare at her. “You had no _new_ pictures. I had no pictures at all.”

“Aw.” She grabs a handful of his t-shirt, right over his heart, and leans in to kiss him on the cheek.

Jake takes the picture at that exact moment and he knows before he even looks at it that it’s going to be a keeper. And yeah, he’s totally right. It’s … art, basically. Amy’s in profile, her nose all scrunched up as she plants the kiss on his cheek and she’s blushing right through the purple spiderweb of bruising on her cheek. Jake’s eyes are closed and he’s got this ridiculously bright smile on his face, his hand resting on Amy’s, right over his heart.

“Hashtag no filter,” he says proudly, showing her. “I’m getting this framed for our apartment! Wait, actually where _do_ we live? Because I know we said–”

“My place,” Amy supplies, “for now, anyway. I had to sublet your apartment, I hope that’s okay–”

“Totally,” Jake agrees, with only a slight pang for the little place. He tots up the reasons on his fingers. “Yours is bigger. Also cleaner. Also tidier–”

“I figured we’d maybe look for somewhere new when you got home,” she says, not quite looking at him. “Something that could be … _our_ place, y’know?”

“Our place,” he echoes. This is his life now. This girl. These plans. This future. He shakes his head softly. “ _So awesome.”_

Amy smiles, tugging at his t-shirt again until he leans in. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. _Yes,”_ he says, before he kisses her. She tastes like strong coffee and the rest of his life, and he has never, ever been this happy.

“I have never, ever been this happy.”

Full disclosure: that’s actually Charles speaking.

Confused, Jake pulls back from Amy and turns to the doorway to find his best friend standing there, one hand over his heart, a pair of Jake’s sneakers in the other.

“Why does this keep happening?” Amy hisses through a smile.

“Don’t mind me,” Charles says, sighing. “You two carry on.”

Jake shakes his head. “No, no, that would be weird.”

“Not for me–”

“Oh, definitely for us, though,” Jake says, stepping back from Amy’s bed. “What’s up, buddy?”

“Figured you’d need these,” Charles says, tossing Jake his shoes. “And a ride to the FBI.”

“Right, the stupid debrief. Crap.” Jake claps a hand to his forehead, looking to Amy. “Sorry, babe. I really have to–”

“Jake, it’s fine,” she says, waving a hand. “I’ll survive.”

“Do you want me to call–”

“It’s only a couple of hours. I’ll be okay by myself.”

Jake makes a noise of disbelief in his throat. “I might not be!”

“Suck it up, Peralta,” she says, patting his arm. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Right.” He shrugs, mustering a smile. “Not a big deal.”

\--

**To: Amy Santiago** [12:11 PM]

this was a terrible mistake i miss u already

**From: Amy Santiago** [12:11 PM]

You’ve been gone two minutes.

Are you even out of the building?

**To: Amy Santiago** [12:12 PM]

in the parking lot now

**To: Amy Santiago** [12:13 PM]

come to your window and wave

**To: Amy Santiago** [12:13 PM]

please please please

**From: Amy Santiago** [12:14 PM]

happy now?

**To: Amy Santiago** [12:15 PM]

exstatic

**From: Amy Santiago** [12:15 PM]

not how you spell it

\--

Jake snapchats his entire trip to the FBI for her, right up until K gives him a classic baby-boomer lecture on millennials and their damn technology, rounding it off with a threat to confiscate his cell phone if he takes one more selfie.

“Fine,” Jake says, pretending to turn it off but really just locking the screen for a minute. “Let’s keep going. I’ve got a life to get back to.”

It all takes way too long and there’s a ton of paperwork to sign but Jake finds he doesn’t mind that much because it’s _his_ signature he’s signing, at last. He does an absurdly elaborate version, adding his whole first name instead of only the initial, just because he can. It makes it all take longer but damnit, it’s worth it!

When the mountain of forms are finally signed, they hand him back his driver’s licence and he’s not ashamed to admit he totally has A MomentTM when they hand over his badge as well, shiny as the day he left it behind.

“We don’t have your service weapon,” K says, running a finger down the list in front of him. “You’ll get that when you report for duty again and – hey, what did I just say?”

“Sorry, sorry!” Jake lowers his phone, and then totally carries on tapping out a caption under the desk while K runs through some more boring legal stuff.

J, sitting right beside Jake, presses his lips together and pretends he can’t see the photo of Jake with a flower crown filter, holding out his badge to the camera.

\--

It’s no slo-mo airport reunion but getting back to Amy for the second time is still pretty phenomenal. She beams at him the moment he comes through the door and he pecks her on the cheek to say hello and it’s all just so … normal. He left the room, the whole building even, and then came back. So normal. So awesomely, awesomely normal.

“Good to go?” Jake asks, eyeing the bag at the side of her bed and the casual clothes she’s changed into.

“Almost,” she says, clicking the end of the pen in her hand impatiently. “I think I’ve signed more paperwork to leave this hospital than you did to get your whole identity back.”

“Probably,” he agrees, perching on the edge of her bed and eyeing the mess of papers in her lap. “Still, you seem pretty cheerful for someone who threatened to go AMA if she didn’t get discharged by noon. Did Doctor Goldstein bring you more of the Attendings’ coffee?”

“No. Better.” Amy sucks in a breath and he can tell she’s been bursting to say whatever this is since he walked back in the room. “The Captain came in to see me while you were gone.”

“He did?”

“Yes! And...” She closes her eyes, savouring it. “He said he was _proud_ of me.”

“Of course he’s proud of you–”

“No, Jake, you don’t understand. There was like ... twenty to thirty seconds of sustained eye contact.” She blows out a breath, beaming. “It was amazing.”

“That’s great, babe,” Jake says, powerless to do anything but smile when she’s this happy. “Hey, out of curiosity whose return from Florida were you more psyched about – the Captain’s or mine?”

“Jake–”

“You know what, don’t answer that.”

“Shut up.” Amy rolls her eyes. “Anyway, so I’m guessing from the incessant snapchat–”

“Hey, you were the one who said you missed the pictures!”

“That everything went okay at the Bureau?”

“Totally,” Jake says, nodding. “Larry Caplan is dead, long live Jake Peralta.”

“Finally.”

“Yup. I’ve been super productive today, you should be proud of me. I got all my stuff back – my licence, my badge, my no longer crushing but still fairly significant debts.” He scratches his cheek, aiming for nonchalance as he adds, “And – uh – also I picked up all the old messages off my phone on the drive back.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, starting counting them off on his fingers. “Couple of those recorded cold calls, a drunk dial with someone crying about how much they missed me – pretty sure it was Charles – and ... just one death threat!”

“What?!”

“Oh, don’t worry, it wasn’t Figgis.”

“Oh.”

“It was your Mom.”

“Oh.” A different sort of panic settles over Amy’s face. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes. She left it one night back in June.”

“Was it bad?”

“Let’s just say I now understand where you get your rage issues from.”

“What did she say?”

Jake closes his eyes, dredging up the frankly terrifying memory of the thirty second recording. “Let’s see … she said that she’d told your brothers to leave me alone – she really wanted me to know that – because she was gonna kill me herself. No help required from any of her seven sons.”

“Oh boy–”

“She did concede that she might call Nic and Alex to help her move my body.”

“I–”

“They’re the weakest two, Amy!”

“I’ll fix it,” Amy promises, grabbing his hand. “I’ll call her – I’ll call her _today._ I swear.”

“Please, please do,” he says, half joking and half serious. It’s not under his skin like it was last night but there’s still something unbearably crappy about the idea of a Santiago – any Santiago – being mad at him. He huffs, knowing he’s sulking and kind of not able to help it. “I just … I really don’t like that she hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you.”

“Ames, you’ve taught me enough Spanish for me to understand that she hates me right now. Also that she had some things to say about my hair, my car, my mother, my–”

“Okay, I get the idea.”

“Like I said, Santiagos got some rage issues.”

“And yet you still love me,” Amy says, lifting his hand to brush a kiss against the back of his hand.

“I do,” he agrees, scrunching up his nose and shaking his head at her, immediately charmed back into a good mood. “But that will absolutely not stop me using you as a human shield when your mom comes for me.”

“Totally understandable.”

\--

Amy’s not kidding about the paperwork.

Doctor Goldstein – such a smart woman – brings more coffee for Amy and some snacks for Jake when she comes back with three more forms that need signing in triplicate.

Jake listens attentively when the Doctor starts running through Amy’s aftercare, tapping a note into his phone ( _rest rest rest / ice for shoulder DONT GET stitches on forearm wet or else)._

Amy nods in all the right places, signing everywhere she has to sign, and it’s only because Jake knows her really, really well that he knows that she’s not actually paying a hundred percent attention. She is listening, this is an authority figure speaking after all, who also happens to control access to the coffee and the exit door here, but she’s also twisting the pen constantly in her hand and Jake knows she’s really just biding her time for the first opportunity to say –

“Okay, and when can I go back to work?”

There it is.

“A week or two, probably.” The doctor raises a warning finger. “But only if you rest that shoulder like I told you to.”

“I will,” Amy says, sitting very still as if to demonstrate. “I promise.”

“I’m sure the NYPD will have their own physician who’ll need to clear you but I think you can be back on light duties soon, Amy.”

“Thank you,” Amy says, and Jake frowns as her hands starting twisting in her lap again, like she’s waiting on something else.

“Any other questions?” the doctor asks, gathering the paperwork.

“Just one,” Amy says, in a tone that’s not quite casual but trying really, really hard to be. “When can we have sex again?”

“Woah, Ames! You can’t – she can’t –” Jake turns to the doctor. “Can she ask that?”

“Of course she can.”

“Oh. Sweet.” Jake opens up the notes on his phone again. “Please continue.”

“Well, it really depends.” The doctor cocks her head, considering, and Jake gets the distinct impression she’s trying not to laugh and / or call him adorable again. “Extremely careful, tender reunion sex? Couple of days. Crazy break-the-furniture life-affirming sex? Couple of weeks, at least.”

“Perfect!” Jake slips his phone back into his pocket. “I happen to be an extremely tender lover.”

“Well there you go.”

“Okay, please stop. Both of you,” Amy says, getting gingerly down from the bed and walking over to shake the physician’s hand. “Thank you, Doctor. For everything.”

“My pleasure.” The doctor smiles at them both, holding open the door.

“Wait, doesn’t she have to leave in a wheelchair?” Jake asks, as Amy heads out the door without a backwards glance.

“Only on TV,” Amy calls, from the hallway. “Carol said you’d ask that.”

“Damn it, Shondaland lied to me again.” Jake shoulders the overnight bag, trailing after Amy. He pauses on the threshold, turning back to the doctor. “Thanks for looking after her – for looking after _both_ of us.”

“My pleasure.” She glances out in the corridor in the direction Amy’s just gone and then turns back to Jake, lowering her voice. “You better marry that girl, Detective. Or I might.”

“That’s the plan.”

It just sort of … slips out.

That’s the plan?

He stops to consider it and … oh. Wow. That totally _is_ the plan.

Now that they’re past the distance and the separation, and he can actually bear to look past his reunion fantasies and think about the future again, it’s all just … _Amy._ Amy and two kids with her bright eyes and a Captain’s hat hung on the back of their bedroom door at night (Amy’s obviously.) The truth of it settles in his heart, weightless – like the best secret he’s ever kept. He’s going to marry Amy Santiago. Not tomorrow, but some day. Soon.

“Oh, me marrying her is the plan I’m referencing, by the way,” Jake amends, holding up a hand to the doctor. “Not you marrying her. I mean you seem super awesome and all–”

“Yeah, it’s okay.” Doctor Goldstein smiles, and it’s a full on McDreamy sparkle. “I figured.”

“C’mon, Jake!” Amy calls from the doorway. “I want to get out of here.”

There’s nothing in her voice to indicate that she heard him but Jake jumps a mile anyway. Because like, what if she developed telepathy when he was away and can somehow hear his brain going _Mr Jake Santiago_ over and over again? Unlikely, yes, but he figures he should probably think of other things just in case. Things like – sunsets. The beach. The Brooklyn Bridge. The evidence locker. Damn it, they’re all just possible proposals!

“Jake?” Amy appears back in the doorway for a second, more than a little exasperated, before hurrying off down the hallway again. She seems kind of annoyed, but not at all suspicious. Score.

“Yes! Coming, sorry,” he says quickly, flashing a final smile to the doctor as he hurries out of the tiny hospital room that he’s weirdly fond of and also kind of hates beyond reason. He catches up to Amy easily, tipping a salute to the Nurse’s Station as they pass it. There’s an audible ‘aw’ that he pretends to be embarrassed about but actually totally loves.

“Everything okay?” Amy asks, flicking a look back towards her hospital room.

“Yep,” Jake says quickly, taking her her hand. “Let’s go home.”

The word seems to hang there in the air after he says it, so small and so unbelievably big at the same time. _Home._ Something a lot like joy wells up inside him and when he looks down at Amy she’s already looking up at him, a soft smile playing around her lips.

“Let’s go home,” he repeats because wow, he likes the sound of that.

Amy hums a contented noise, letting go of his hand to burrow into his side, throwing both her arms around his waist in absolute and total violation of the rule about resting her shoulder. Damn, she must really love him. Like, really _really_ love him. Beaming, Jake throws his free arm around her shoulder and it’s kind of hard to walk like this but he doesn’t care, so they just sort of shuffle awkwardly up the hallway to the elevators like some sort of weird eight-limbed creature.

When Jake catches a glimpse of his face in the mirrored wall of the elevator, in between sneaking glances at Amy, he finds an entirely different man to the one who stood in this spot last night, white lipped and terrified. Right now, in this moment, he looks like … Jake Peralta. Like the best possible version of himself.

Okay.

The best version of himself who also happens to need a shower. And a shave. And another nap.

It’s close enough.

\--

Jake knows that memory is unreliable.

He’s spent countless hours with witnesses, patiently listening to them describe the huge brown-haired guy who robbed them, only for the perp to be a skinny little blonde dude in the end. So yeah, it’s totally a thing. There were classes on it at the Academy. Amy probably even knows the official term for it.

Still, it’s kind of weird to find that Amy’s neighborhood isn’t quite what he remembers. He spends the cab ride back to her – no, _their –_ place with his face practically pressed up against the car window, staring at the familiar streets and feeling a little off kilter at the way the windows on one apartment building are bigger than he remembers, the sidewalks wider, the roads busier.

Then there’s the changes, the things he couldn’t possibly remember because he wasn’t here to see them. Because he was gone for three whole months and the evidence is _everywhere._ The closed up storefront that was a thriving start-up when he left in the Spring. The new hipstery café on the corner where the bodega used to be. He hates it all, on principle.

“Hey, has there always been glass in this front door?” Jake asks, as they head into Amy’s building.

“Uh – yeah,” Amy says, throwing him a look. “Pretty much forever.”

“Huh.”

Amy’s apartment, at least, is just as he remembers it. Pale pink walls, way too many antiques and filled with a comforting sort of vanilla scent that reminds him of Amy and Netflix and really bad cooking and happiness. He calms down the second they walk in the door. Or at least he starts to, until he sees … _it_.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he says, stopping in his tracks and immediately rethinking his blanket hatred of all change. “What’s happening here?”

“Oh, you mean the boxes?” Amy says, nodding to the neatly stacked pile against the wall all down her hallway.

“Not at all,” Jake says, throwing out his hands towards his framed Die Hard poster, now displayed on her living room wall. “I’m talking about this!”

“Oh, right,” Amy says, dipping her head to hide a smile as he waves jazz hands at the picture. “I figured you’d want it up there.”

“You figured correctly,” he says, folding his arms and looking around the room with a grin. His stuff. Her stuff. This is gonna be so awesome. “But now that you mention it, yeah, what’s with the boxes?”

“It’s your stuff,” Amy says, dropping down onto the couch and grimacing slightly at the motion. “From your apartment.”

“What?” Jake sits down beside her, kicking his feet up against her coffee table. “They’ve just been sitting here the whole time I was gone?”

“Pretty much.” Amy shrugs. “Storage felt … too permanent. But unpacking all your stuff when you weren’t here was kind of sad. Like Queen Victoria still laying out clothes for Prince Albert after he died creepy.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

“But what about the mess?” he says, throwing a look over his shoulder towards the boxes. “Didn’t it drive you crazy having all those boxes just sitting there?”

“Oh totally,” Amy says, dropping her head against the back of the couch and closing her eyes. “But I told myself the mess was only temporary – you being gone _had_ to be temporary – so it was okay.”

“Aw.”

“Also I might have organised the contents a little.”

“There she is,” he says fondly, knocking his shoulder against hers without thinking. “Ah, sorry, did that hurt?”

“A little,” she concedes, eyes still closed. “The cab ride kinda wiped me out, actually. Probably time for more meds.”

“Doctor Peralta will see you now,” he says, springing up and digging through the overnight bag from the hospital for her pills. When he checks the fridge for a cold bottle of water, he stops dead, starting at the entire shelf full of–

“Orange Soda!” he yells, smiling in Amy’s direction even though she can’t see him from here. “Did you buy these in ready for my emotional return?”

“Of course,” Amy calls back. “You know I don’t drink that stuff.”

“Really? ‘Cause it kinda looks like you might’ve had some,” he says, as he sits back down beside her. He was gonna let it slide but after careful consideration … nope. He can’t help himself. He is a damn good, extremely puzzled-starved detective, who also happens to know his bulk-bought Orange Soda pretty well, and that – that was not the full box back there.

“Of course I didn’t,” Amy says sleepily, taking a glass of water and two pills from him. “I hate orange soda, you know that.”

“Keep telling yourself that, babe.”

“I definitely didn’t drink any,” she says, shaking her head. “Like, not even one night when I had a little too much to drink at Shaw’s and just wanted to feel close to you.” She scoffs. “Nope. Not even then.”

Jake laughs quietly, warmth flaring in his chest. “You mean, like the way I definitely didn’t go to the mall and keep one of those little tester paper things of your perfume in my pocket for like three weeks.”

“Yeah.” Amy hums a laugh, reaching for his hand. “Just like that.”

She falls asleep right there on the couch, her head on his shoulder, breathing these little snuffling snores that are categorically the cutest sound in the world (including any and all baby animals and he will fight anyone who says otherwise). Jake closes his eyes for a while too, savoring the moment – Amy Santiago asleep beside him, warm and soft and drooling on his shoulder, on their sofa, in their home. And yeah, memory might be a crappy, strange thing that plays tricks on you and can’t be trusted but he’s pretty certain he will never, ever forget this exact moment.

\--

He doesn’t hear Amy make the call to her Mom.

He’s in the shower at the time, belting out every single part in _Non-Stop_ and really, really nailing Eliza’s lines, if he says so himself. He hums through the start of Act Two while he gets dressed and towels off his hair, grinning at his blurry pink cheeked reflection in the foggy mirror. When he steps back out into the bedroom, he feels clean and boneless and entirely content.

That’s when it happens.

He’s about to finish the number with one big jazzy, _“So what did I miss?”_ when he realises Amy’s on a call.

“No, Mom, it wasn’t like that – no! Witness Protection was both of our choice,” she’s saying, perched on the end of their bed, pinching her eyes closed under her glasses. “Stop saying – Mom! Jake did not abandon me!”

Even though she’s defending him, even though she’s denying it, every single part of him trembles with the impact of that one word. It’s like being hit by a car. Which, by the way, has actually happened to him before so he’s talking from genuine experience here. Really awful, really crappy experience. He stops on the threshold of their bathroom, suddenly winded, grabbing the door frame just to stay standing straight. Amy looks up then, right as it really hits him, right as it starts to crawl under his skin, and she trails off at once, her face crumpling.

“Mom, hold on–” She lowers the phone, covering the receiver. “Jake, I didn’t–”

“So ... I’m gonna go order us some dinner,” he says vaguely, grabbing one of his hoodies from the back of the chair beside the door just for something to hold onto. It feels like he’s falling apart inside, like every one of his vital systems is shutting off, one by one, and if he doesn’t get out of this room right now he’s going to faint. Or cry. Or both. Either way, it’s not going to be pretty. “You want pizza? Chinese?”

“Jake.” Amy’s eyes dart from the phone to Jake and she bites her lip. “Wait–”

“Indian? Thai?”

“Jake–”

“I’m kinda leaning towards pizza,” he says, shoving his arms into the sleeves of his sweater as he backs towards the door. “Because Florida pizza was like, the worst.”

“Oh – okay,” she says uncertainly, rocking forward a little like she wants to get up and follow him. “Pizza’s good.”

“Great,” he says, stumbling a little over his own feet as he makes it out the door. “I’ll just … let you guys talk.”

Jake pauses in the hallway, leaning hard against the wall of boxes until they wobble and shake, which is some sort of perfect metaphor for him right now. Boxed up. Shaking. Maybe gonna fall. He huffs a panicked sort of half laugh, a little hysterical, and pinches the bridge of his nose, forcing out a few breaths until the roaring in his ears starts to fade.

Somewhere back in the bedroom, Amy says, “Yeah, Mom, I’m still here.” She sounds sorry and tired and kind of terrified and he can’t stand it, can’t bear to hear that defeated tone for another second. “No, I told you, it wasn’t like that–”

He hurries away from the door so he doesn’t have to listen to her make excuses for his absence for another second. It’s the one thing she was never, ever supposed to have to do. Not for him. Not ever.

Jake dials the pizza place in a daze, walking vaguely around Amy’s kitchen while he orders. He’s itching to move, to run down to the street and just walk anywhere until the pounding of his feet on the pavement is enough to drown out the pounding of his heart. In Florida when it got all too much he used to walk like that, round and round the neighborhood until the swampy heat had melted away his thoughts, his fears, even all those stupid, hopeful daydreams, and his mind was finally quiet again. But he can’t do that now – leaving the apartment would feel too much like leaving Amy and he cannot, will not, ever do that. So he paces. Three steps forward, three steps back. Going nowhere.

When he hangs up, barely aware of what he’s even ordered, he wanders into the living room. It’s a colossal mistake because now he’s close enough to hear Amy’s voice through the open bedroom door, not her words but her tone – annoyed, exhausted, sad – and god, it’s all his fault _._

He drops onto the couch and flicks on the TV, turning up the volume a little until all he can hear is _Say Yes to the Dress_ and the dull roaring in his ears that’s just started up again. Zipping up his hoodie right to his neck, his kicks his feet up onto the table and tucks his chin into his chest, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Then he recognises it – perfume and sunscreen and something else.

This hoodie smells like Amy.

Like she dug it out of one of those boxes she kept so neatly stacked, one night when he was gone. Like she’s been wearing it, her hands lost in the long sleeves, sitting in this exact spot, while he hid himself away in Florida.

It’s September and it’s still so warm and he has never been this cold in his life.

\--

He gives himself a minute to feel like shit, then extends it to five. Then ten. He doesn’t have a watch and he doesn’t exactly count it out Mississipily but it’s at least three brides, one overbearing Maid of Honor and several long-dead relatives before his breathing returns to normal.

In the silence before the commercials kick in, Jake realises he can’t hear Amy’s voice from the bedroom anymore.

He can hear something much, much worse.

A rustle of fabric.

A hitch of breath.

A whimper.

He gets up and bolts for the bedroom, right away.

Amy’s still sitting on the bed when he opens the door, her phone in her lap, the screen blank. It’s gotten a little dark around her, and he can’t see much beyond the outline of her face – the way her jaw is trembling. Fear shoots straight to his heart.

“Ames?” She’s playing with the tape holding the gauze on her forearm and she doesn’t even seem to notice he’s there. He touches on the bedroom light and she startles a little, her phone sliding to the floor. “You okay?”

She looks up at him and the lost look in her eyes .... oh, it _wrecks_ him. He clamps his lips shut to hold in the whimper that’s trembling in his chest and hurries over to her, dropping down beside her on the end of the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into the quiet room, putting his arm around her waist. She stiffens at his touch and the scared little kid in the back of his mind thinks, _oh. Is this when she leaves me?_ He sucks in a breath, ready to beg. There’s no dignity in how much he loves her anyway. “Amy, please, I’m–”

“Do you hate me?” she asks quietly, staring straight ahead at the wall. “For staying?”

“What?” It’s like his whole world turns inside out. Up is down, left is right, and Amy Santiago thinks this is her fault. This can’t be real. He gapes at her, repeating himself, “What?!”

“I’d understand,” she says miserably, heaving a sigh that goes straight to his terrified heart. “I–

“No!” He says quickly, turning towards her. She still won’t look at him. “Amy, _no!_ Of course I don’t...” He can’t even say it. “I could never–”

“Not even a little bit?” Her voice breaks, and so does his heart.

“No.” It’s the strangest feeling – like he’s being hollowed outside inside, like everything good is being scraped away. “Why would you even think–”

“I had the choice,” she reminds him dully. “I chose to stay. I left you to go to Florida alone and–”

“Hey, hey, you know that’s not true.” Jake slips off the bed, dropping into a crouch in front of her and taking both her hands in his. “Amy, look at me. Hey.” He bobs his head, desperately trying to hold her gaze. “We talked about it, remember? We both agreed you needed to stay here – to solve the case. And you did! You–”

“Yeah but I didn’t – I didn’t have time to think–” She heaves a breath, her voice shuddering, and her words start to come out between gasps. “What it’d do to you – what people would say about you–”

“Amy, Amy, slow down.” It hurts – actually physically _hurts_ – to see her like this, but he stuffs it down, summoning the calm that she needs right now. “C’mon.” He takes a slow deep breath, then another, until she finally starts to mirror him. “That’s it. Slow down, slow down.”

“You are _nothing_ like your father,” she says suddenly, locking her eyes on his at last. She’s still a little frantic but it’s different now, more focussed. “You know that, right? No matter what my Mom thinks, you did not ab–”

“Ames, it’s okay,” he interrupts, because he hasn’t got a hope in hell of holding himself together if she says that word again, even to deny it. “I’m okay.”

“I didn’t want you to hear any of that,” she says, lifting her shoulders in a helpless shrug. “I’m so sorry–”

“Don’t be,” he says quickly, shaking his head. He lets go of her hand for a second and retrieves her phone from the floor, holding it up to her. “Whatever your Mom said, whatever she thinks … it does not matter.” He’s speaking without thinking, clutching at anything that might get through to her, but as soon as he says it, he can’t believe he didn’t see the truth of it before now. It felt like it mattered, but it didn’t. It doesn’t. Not like she matters.

“Jake–”

“Amy, I don’t care what people think. Okay, okay,” he amends, when she makes a disbelieving sound in her throat, “I’m always gonna care a little what people think.” He takes her hands again, tugging on them. “But above everything and everybody else, I’m gonna care what _you_ think.”

“Oh.” She looks down at him kneeling at her feet, and the hope in her eyes is the best thing he’s ever seen. “Really?”

“Really! So …” It takes all the courage he’s got, and some more that he didn’t even know he had, to look her right in the eye and say, “Do you hate me for going?”

“No!” Amy answers immediately, sitting up straighter. There is steel in her voice and something like it in her eyes, and he doesn’t doubt her answer, not for a second. “Absolutely not.”

And just like that, he forgives himself for leaving. Just drops the guilt, like a weight at his feet. He feels five years younger, a foot taller, just … _better._

“Well there you go,” he says, his voice almost giving out. He leans up to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ears, leaving his hand cupping her cheek. “That’s all that matters.”

“Jake,” she says quietly, the beginnings of a smile tugging at her lips, “I’m so _proud_ of you for going.”

“You’re – what?”

“You trusted the squad – trusted me – to find a way to bring you home. I’m _so_ proud of you for that.”

“Oh.”

The shoulder of her tank top is slipping off her shoulder and her hair’s a mess and god, he loves her so much it _hurts._

“C’mere.” Jake stands up, pulling her to her feet and into his arms in one smooth motion. He ducks his head to her neck, his lips just touching her collarbone and Amy sighs, melting a little into his embrace.

“So,” he says quietly, as their breathing falls into sync, “just to be clear – you don’t resent me for going and I don’t resent you for staying?”

Amy hums her agreement.

He blows out a breath that ruffles her hair. “Wow, we are so dumb, y’know that?”

Amy laughs in reply, and it rumbles from her chest to his, warm and kind of wonderful.

“And hey, your Mom will totally come around,” he promises after a moment, pressing a kiss into her hair. “I’ll win her over with my irresistible charm.”

“Oh, really?” She pulls back a little, raising her eyebrows.

“Mark my words, Amy Santiago,” he goes on, warming to the idea because Amy’s smiling again, and that’s all that matters. That’s all that ever matters. “Even if it takes me the next ten years, your mother will once again refer to me as her eighth son.”

“She said that?”

“Yes, once. It was kind of awkward, actually. And it will happen again, I swear it!”

Amy laughs helplessly, dropping her head against his chest for a minute. He looks down at her, her dark hair falling down her back, her shoulders shaking, and something like joy swells in his chest. He did this. He made Amy Santiago laugh. How could anything or anybody else matter when he gets to makes Amy Santiago laugh?

“This – this is what I’ve been missing,” Amy says, pulling back and looking up at him with something like wonder in her eyes. She prods her finger into his chest. “How d’you do it?”

“Do what?”

“This,” she says vaguely, waving a vague hand over herself. “You just …” She shrugs helplessly, and god, she’s so damn beautiful right now – spectacular black eye, smiling at him like he hung the moon. “Jake, you just make _everything_ better.”

“I–” Jake opens his mouth and finds, for once, he’s got no idea what to say.

So he kisses her.

(Obviously.)

Amy hums a sigh against his lips and lifts up onto her tiptoes, winding her arms around his neck in a move that definitely can’t be good for her shoulder. Jake thinks about pulling back to remind her to be careful but then her hands are tugging at his still-damp hair and just like that, coherent thought slips right out of his grasp. He stumbles back a few paces because he can’t be expected to retain control of his limbs when Amy’s tongue is in his mouth and her hand is up his shirt.

It occurs to him then, in a strange flash of clarity, that this is kind of the first proper kiss they’ve shared since he got back. Like, the first kiss where Amy wasn’t lying in a hospital bed. And it is … spectacular. Amy’s pressed right up against him, all familiar curves, and her skin is so soft and so warm when he slips his hand up the back of her t-shirt. She whimpers a little and his hand trembles as it coasts up her back, pressing her carefully closer to him, mindful of her injuries.

If he was a Hollywood heroine and this was a big movie finale, he’d pop his his foot right about now.

He’s not, so he doesn’t.

(Okay. He totally does.)

\--


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final part! Enjoy...

**From: Danny Santiago** [09:11 AM]

I KNEW IT

 **From: Danny Santiago** [09:11 AM ]

wait

 

_Danny created a group [09:11 AM]_

_Danny added Alex Santiago to the group [09:12 AM]_

_Danny added Nic Santiago to the group [09:12 AM]_

_Danny changed the group name to: The Small Council v2 [09:12 AM]_

 

 **From: Danny Santiago** [09:12 AM]

I KNEW IT

 **From: Danny Santiago** [09:12 AM]

Let the record show that I KNEW IT

 

 **From: Alex Santiago** [09:13 AM]

uhhhh no

you said he was probably undercover??

 

 **From: Danny Santiago** [09:14 AM]

close enough!

I knew they hadn’t really broken up

 

 **From: Nic Santiago** [09:14 AM]

ignore him Jake we ALL agreed something was up

Amy was acting so shady

 

 **From: Danny Santiago** [09:14 AM]

whatever

I called it first and u both know it

 

 **From: Nic Santiago** [09:15 AM]

Anyway -- Jake welcome back!

How’s my little sis doing?

 

 **From: Nic Santiago** [09:16 AM]

oh mom told us everything btw

 

 **From: Alex Santiago** [09:16 AM]

yeah don’t worry she’ll come around … eventually

 

 **From: Nic Santiago** [09:16 AM]

When are we getting drinks?

 

 **From: Danny Santiago** [09:16 AM]

yeah we need to catch up dude we missed you

 

 **F** **rom: Alex Santiago** [09:16 AM]

We had to cope with R+L=J without you

 **To: The Small Council v2** [09:17 AM]

I missed you losers

 

_Jake changed the group name to: Pokémon SantiaGO [09:17 AM]_

 

 **From: Danny Santiago** [09:18 AM]

amazing

\--

Okay, in hindsight Jake probably should’ve known that Amy wouldn’t call him into the bathroom for a high five. But when he walks in and sees her hand sticking out of the shower curtain, hovering there, it seems like the obvious choice. He can’t leave her hanging!

“Jake?” Amy’s voice carries through the flimsy curtain, annoyed and mildly confused. “What are you doing out there?”

“Definitely not high fiving you,” he says, pulling his hand away from hers, “because that’s clearly not what you wanted.”

“Clearly,” Amy bites out, her head peeking around the curtain. Her cheeks are pink and her hair is wet and woah, she looks even more pissed than when she tried to reach down the coffee filters from the top shelf this morning and realised she couldn’t.

“So what’s up?” he says, matching her frown with one of his own. “You need something?”

“Yeah, I need my right arm to properly work again.”

“It will,” he says, with an encouraging smile that just makes her glare turn as sour as the candies he was definitely not just eating out in the kitchen when she called for him. “In one to two weeks!”

“I’m so sick of this.” He can’t see her properly behind the curtain but it sounds like she actually stamps her foot on the bottom of the bath. It makes an adorable little splashy noise that totally ruins the effect she was probably going for.

“Ames.” He holds up his hands placatingly. “You got out of the hospital like a day ago–”

“Exactly,” she says, shaking the shower curtain with both hands. “D’you know how gross I felt this morning? I haven’t showered properly since you were still in Florida. There’s only so much that dry shampoo can do, Jake!”

Honestly, Amy had kind of looked like the swamp monster version of his girlfriend this morning. He’d actually kind of liked the whole messy package – her wild hair and greasy skin – just for reminding him that this was all real, not some early morning daydream in his empty bed in Coral Palms. But since Amy does seem to care, a whole lot actually, Jake shoves his own dumb feelings aside and focuses on how he can cheer her up. He starts by drawing a smiley face in the steam on her mirror, which only succeeds in making her toss a loofah at his head. So now she’s more like a swamp slash rage monster. Eh. He still loves her.

“Okay, so what exactly is the problem?” he says, calmly passing her back the loofah. “Tell me.”

Amy takes it back meekly, her lips turned down into a perfect frown, the exact opposite of the smiley face in the mirror.

“For starters, I can’t get this arm wet for 48 hours,” she says, waving the arm that’s still sticking out the shower curtain away from the spray. The dressing on her forearm is a little dirty now, the tape peeling, but it is at least dry because Amy Santiago sticks to the rules, even when they make her crazy. “And on my other side I can’t even raise my arm above my head to shampoo my hair because of my dumb shoulder.”

She disappears behind the curtain again and he watches her vague outline through the polka dot pattern as she bows her head and takes a few deep breaths. When she puts her head round the curtain again, the anger is gone and she just looks sad. Damp and sad. It’s a special kind of pathetic that makes his heart ache. “Will you please help me?”

“Of course I will,” he says softly, already shedding his hoodie and tossing it onto the closed toilet seat beside him.

Amy brightens at once, like she actually thought he might have said no, which is just about the dumbest idea ever. He’d bring her the moon if she asked for it. (Those SpaceX rockets can’t be that expensive, right?)

He hovers his hand over his t-shirt, ready to pull it over his head. “D’you want me to get in or…”

“I could get out – maybe lean over the bath?” she suggests, her cheeks warming with something other than the heat of the water. “Less awkward nakedness?”

“Smort,” he agrees, passing her a towel as she shuts the water off for a moment.

When Amy pulls back the curtain a moment later, the towel is now wrapped tight around her and it’s doing some seriously awesome things for her boobs. Not the time but still – _awesome things._ Jake ever so slightly loses his chill (c’mon, it’s been over three months) but he just about remembers his manners, offering his hand and holding tight as she steps carefully out of the bath and onto the mat beside him.

“Hey, before we do this can we just agree one thing?” he says, as he piles up some towels beside the bath for her to sit on. “We never _ever_ tell Charles about this.”

“What? Why would I talk to Charles about this?” Amy says, sitting down with her back against the bath and angling her head back so her hair falls inside. She lifts her head level again, pulling a face. “Actually, why would anyone? And why would he care?”

“Oh, because he thinks it’s erotic,” Jake says flatly, lifting down the showerhead and turning it on, testing the heat on his hand. “Can you believe that?”

“This?” Amy snorts a laugh. “Yeah, right.”

“I know,” Jake agrees, kneeling beside her and directing the spray over her hair. “Crazy, right?”

(Wrong.)

Less than five minutes later, Jake has to admit – to himself, never _ever_ to Boyle! – that Charles maybe, kinda, slightly has a point?

Oh boy.

It could just be because Jake’s been away from Amy for months and he’s so sex-deprived right now that she can turn him on by just being in the same room, but this whole situation is … kind of hot. Kind of really, really inconveniently hot. It’s not his fault! It’s just that it’s been _months_ and now Amy’s so close and her boobs are totally front and center as he leans over to direct the water over her hair. Even when he tries to look away, nowhere seems to be safe. Her bare legs are stretched out in front of her, crossed at the ankles, and her skin is glistening with a hundred little water droplets that he would very, very much like to suck dry right now. (That’s what three months will do to a guy - _hey babe, can I lick your knee?_ )

Jake tries not to let it all affect him, he really does, but when he starts methodically working the shampoo into Amy’s hair … she _moans_.

Oh, come onnnnn.

Jake swallows hard, trying not to look down but oops totally looking down to where her chest is kind of heaving a little and her throat is totally exposed as she throws her head back over the bath. When she moans again it takes everything in him not to bite down on skin there, to feel the sound under his tongue.

“Uhh, Ames,” he says, as he starts to rinse the shampoo out. She’s whimpering with every pass of his hands and it is _destroying_ him. “Your mouth is writing cheques that your injured body cannot cash right now.”

“Oh.” She opens heavy-lidded eyes and he feels a jolt in his stomach because her pupils are blown and dark. Ha! She’s as turned on as he is. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says with a high pitched laugh, starting to work in her conditioner now. “Are you kidding me? Amy sex noises … very high on the list of things that I missed about you.”

“Aw, you made a list?” She hums a laugh, her eyes slipping closed again as he turns the spray back on her hair. “I must be rubbing off on you.”

“Amy’s love of lists ... also on the list.”

She whimpers again when he runs his hands over her scalp and that’s it, he is not going to survive this. This is where he dies. Spontaneous human combustion. Her hair is clean now, no trace of the conditioner left, but he keeps running the water through it for a little while longer, his hand running restlessly over her scalp. His knees are aching and his arm feels like it’s about to fall off and this is honestly the most fun he’s had in months.

“So …” Amy begins, opening her eyes again and staring at his throat as he swallows hard. “What else was on this list?”

The moment sort of hangs there, possibilities multiplying in the steam, until Amy deliberately, ever so slowly, untucks her towel and lets it fall open a little.

Jake gasps – actually, honestly _gasps_ – and drops the showerhead into the bath at once, leaning down and finally, _finally_ pressing a desperate kiss to her lips. Amy whimpers at the contact, holding him in place with a steady hand on the back of his neck, and she’s wet and he’s dry and she’s totally naked and he’s fully clothed and this is possibly the hottest moment of his entire existence.

It doesn’t last, obviously.

The showerhead clatters around the bottom of the bath while they kiss, spinning wildly and then suddenly it twists around and the spray arches up and out of the bath, soaking them both. Jake yelps, pulling away from Amy as the spray hits him right in the chest, completely soaking his t-shirt. Amy splutters a laugh, holding a hand to her bruised side and ducking carefully out of the way while Jake reaches up and shuts the water off.

When he sits back down on his haunches, Amy has tugged the towel back up around herself and she can hardly breathe for laughing. Well. That’s just great. He didn’t get the slo-mo reunion he deserved and now the universe won’t even let him have this.

There’s really nothing else for it.

He starts to laugh too.

“Damn it,” he says, passing her a second towel for her hair. “I thought I was being so smooth there.”

“You were,” she says, her laugh turning into a gasp of pain as she tries to towel off her hair.

He snatches the towel up, running it carefully over her hair for her and then trying to twist it into one of those knot things that women seem to do effortlessly. He just kind of ends up pulling her hair and hitting her in the face with the towel. But … points for trying, right?

When he finally pulls her to her feet, he shoots her a cautious look. “So … has the moment passed? I feel like it’s passed.”

“Jake,” Amy says quietly, placing one hand on his chest, warm against his soaking wet t-shirt. “It’s been over three months. The moment has definitely not passed.”

Then she drops the towel again.

What a time to be alive.

\--

What follows is basically a ton of stuff from the extensive list of things Jake missed while he was away. All of them from subsection Sexy Times.

Specifically:

  * Boobs, boobs, boobs (predictable top of the list, but a classic for a reason)


  * The scratch of Amy’s regulation-short nails on his back


  * That breathy little whimper she only ever makes when he kisses that exact spot on her neck that drives her crazy


  * The way she trembles when his hands start tracing letters over her skin (He tries to make her guess what he’s writing and she just whimpers his name. He’s not sure if that’s her answer but it's wrong, wrong, wrong. It's her name that his fingers are restlessly writing out. It's always her name. Only ever her name)


  * The sight of her dark hair fanned out across her white pillows, her lip caught between her teeth, her eyes blown wide


  * The perfect softness of the skin on the inside of her thighs


  * Her hands sinking into his hair, gently but firmly holding his head between her legs


  * The way her back arches up right off the bed when she comes on his tongue


  * Her hand closing around him, and that wicked little smile she always gets when he bucks up into her touch


  * The way she always seems to say his last name – _Peralta –_ all strung out and desperate – when he slides inside her


  * How she holds her breath while he’s moving inside her, forgetting to breathe for a while and then letting out these desperate little pants, her breath hot against his skin.


  * Her eyes – wide and dark and so freaking beautiful – watching him when he comes apart



\--

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he says after, when they’re lying beside each other, sweat-soaked and still wet from the shower. The sheets are a damp tangle and Amy’s hair is starting to dry into a riot of curls and Jake could fall asleep right now and sleep for days. “Because your Doctor specified careful tender reunion sex and I’m not sure I stuck to the rules the whole time–”

“I’m fine,” Amy says, stretching out carefully, rolling her neck from side to side. “Better than fine, actually.”

“Me too,” he agrees, running a finger down her bare back as she leans over to tuck the box of condoms back inside in her bedside table. “Hey, were those different condoms by the way?”

“Actually, yes!” she says, turning back to him with a smile. “They got better reviews than–”

“Wait, wait, wait.” He lifts himself up onto his elbows, looking over at her. “You read the reviews on condoms?”

“What? No! Why would – I don’t–”

“You do, don’t you?”

“No.” She scoffs an unconvincing laugh. “I mean it’s not like I actively check, it was just–”

“Amy...”

“Okay fine!” She throws her hands up. “Yes! You were gone for three months, okay? I got bored!”

“Wow.”

“So I’m a conscientious consumer, what is wrong with that?”

“Nothing at all.” He shakes his head fondly, leaning over to press a feather-light kiss to her injured shoulder. “I love you so much, you total weirdo.”

“Even when I look like this?” she says, trying to flatten her tangled hair and not really succeeding.

“Hey, I did a semi-professional shampoo job, it is not my fault!” he says as she rolls her eyes, catching her finger on a tangle. “Besides, Amy Sex Hair–”

“Let me guess, also on the list?”

“Bingo.”

“Do I ever get to see this list?”

“It’s all up here,” he says, tapping his forehead.

“You didn’t write it down?” She sits up, delightfully outraged. “Jake, that’s the worst idea–”

“Hey, it’s not my fault. It’s not like I had a ton of spare binders lying around in Florida,” he jokes, tugging at her elbow until she lies down beside him again. “Not like I would here.”

“What a nightmare,” she says, quite seriously.

“It really was,” he agrees, just as serious. He folds her into his arms, kissing her damp, curling hair. “It really, really was.”

\--

Jake gets called back to work six days after coming home.

Amy … not so much.

“I don’t get it, I’m totally ready,” she says when he tells her, openly ignoring the fact that she’s currently doubled over in agony after trying to do a load of laundry.

“Yeah, it’s crazy,” he says, gently rubbing her back. “You seem in peak physical shape.”

“Shut up. I’m getting there.”

It’s true, sort of.

Her black eye has faded almost completely – black to purple to green to yellow and now mostly just a shadow over her cheekbone, almost imperceptible. The dressing on her arm is long gone, the space age-y dissolvable stitches leaving behind a shiny thin red scar that Amy quietly admits, after a couple of beers one night, that she totally doesn’t want to fade because it’s ever so slightly badass.

Her shoulder has been far slower to heal though, and the bruising on her side still makes her take a sharp breath whenever she twists the wrong way, leaving her winded about ten times a day. Winded and sore and totally mad about it because Amy Santiago is a terrible patient. Yeah. Who saw that shocker coming?

Jake tries to delay going back, offering to take a couple of vacation days, but Amy shouts him down every time.

“Are you kidding me?” she says, when he tries to broach the idea one more time over dinner the night before he’s due back. “No. No way.”

“Amy–”

“You were gone for months, Jake. _Months._ You must be beyond desperate to get back to work, why would you even–”

“No, I am,” he admits, picking up the pizza crust she’s just discarded out of the box and taking a bite. “But you’re not back yet and I don’t know, it just doesn’t seem fair…”

“Jake,” she says quietly, tugging on his sleeve until he turns to her. There are pizza crumbs on her shirt and she is so deadly serious right now. “Not fair was you having to give up your dream job this whole summer. I am not gonna be the reason you miss even one more day.”

“I–”

“Jake, it’s okay.” She smiles at him and he knows she means it. You can’t fake that sunshine in her eyes. “Go to work.”

“Okay.” Sometimes it’s overwhelming how much she just … gets it. Gets _him_. He beams at her. “You’re the best, y’know that?”

She dips her head. “I know.”

The next morning – his first back at the Nine-Nine – dawns with a bright sky and a sharp breeze, rattling the promise of fall against the old window frames of their apartment. Jake celebrates the chill by putting on as many layers as he can: his favorite plaid shirt, the softest hoodie he can find, and finally, his slightly battered leather jacket. When he slips his badge round his neck again, the familiar weight settling against his chest, he feels like … a princess, basically. A totally bad-ass, crime-solving, pretty, pretty princess.

He stuffs down his glee when he heads back into the bedroom to say goodbye to Amy, expecting her to be upset about missing work. (And by upset, he means devastated). He finds her sitting up in bed, wearing an old sweatshirt of his rolled up at the sleeves, her giant glasses perched on her nose as she flicks through her iPad.

Jake pauses in the doorway, taking her in. She’s an instagram filter of perfection right now and his brain goes full tilt shift, blurring the rest of the room until all he can see is her. Every single time the knowledge hits him like the first time all over again – this is real and it’s every day.

Sensing his presence, Amy looks up from the screen and he braces himself for the disappointment in her eyes that’s ... not there? Huh.

“Hey,” he says cautiously, still hovering by the door.

“Hey.” She studies him appreciatively, taking in his whole outfit, her eyes lingering on the badge around his neck. Then she smiles, her eyes bright, and says softly, “There he is.”

Jake beams at her, warmth blazing in his chest despite the chill in the morning air. He gives a little twirl that turns her smile into a delighted laugh, and then hurries over to the bed to climb in beside her.

“Woah, what are you doing?” she says, swatting at him. “Jake! You’re gonna make yourself late.”

“Nuh-uh,” he says, setting the iPad aside and drawing her into his arms. “I got up an extra ten minutes early.”

“What? For this?”

“Yep,” he says happily, running his hands up her back under her shirt. “Also to chase you down and bring you back if you tried to make a run for it and come into the precinct with me.”

“I considered it,” she concedes.

“Knew it! I’m the best detective in the world.”

“Excuse–”

“Joint best detective.”

“Thank you.”

He winds up getting to work just one minute late – pretty good when you consider that it was damn near impossible to get out of Amy’s warm bed, where her soft and very, very willing body was pressed against his, his badge wedged between their chests. Of course, one minute late turns into a couple more minutes when he actually gets into the building because it’d be totally rude of him not to stop and catch up with the Desk Sergeant downstairs. And then someone asks about Amy and before he knows it he’s telling the whole story of Figgis’ arrest to ten uniformed cops, one parole officer, a priest, and two old ladies who only came in for directions.

Still, he’s in the building. So he’s not really _late-_ late, right?

When he finally gets upstairs, the smell of the place is the first thing that hits him. Industrial floor cleaner and sweat and coffee. Jake’s breath catches in his chest because, well, mostly because it smells kind of gross, but also a little bit because he’s _back._ He feels a very strong urge to yell, “NINE-NINE!”

When he opens the gate and steps into the bullpen, a lot of things happen all at once.

Charles cheers.

Gina actually sets down her cell phone.

The handle of Terry’s coffee cup shatters in his hand and he doesn’t even flinch.

Scully says, “I thought you were dead.”

Rosa _smiles._

The Captain steps out of his office, takes one look at him, and says, “Peralta you’re seventeen minutes late.”

Jake beams at them all. “Aaaand I’m back.”

\--

Jake gets stuck on boring door duty for a boring B&E all boring afternoon.

And in a shocking turn of events that takes the entire squad by surprise, he’s totally _happy_ about it.

The thing is, all those months missing the job really did mean missing _everything_ – even knocking on every door in a six floor walk up. (He gets to flash his badge and say, “Detective Peralta, NYPD.” What’s not to love?) By the end of the day, he’s exhausted, he’s caught no leads whatsoever, and he feels about ten feet tall. Police work is boring and tiring and so, so awesome.

He shakes off Rosa’s invite to Shaw’s and heads straight home, stopping to pick up some extra hot Pad Thai for Amy because she loves it and it’ll make her smile. And yeah, okay, maybe because the overwhelming spiciness might just distract her from feeling bad that he’s been at work and she hasn’t.

As it turns out, he didn’t need to worry – she’s found her own distraction.

It involves one enormous binder, her laptop, and a billion sheets of paper strewn all over the coffee table. She flashes him a quick distracted smile in greeting and there’s a familiar fire in her eyes that can only mean one thing – Amy Santiago has a New Project.

YikesTM

“Hey.” He smothers a helpless grin at the sight of her hunched over the papers, totally engrossed. “Watcha doing?”

“Apartment-hunting!” she says happily, retrieving the pen that’s wedged in her ponytail and checking something off on the list in front of her. She shuffles up the couch, patting the space beside her. “Come see. There’s so much to think about.”

Jake takes the spot beside her, setting down the bag of take-out and picking up the nearest sheet of paper ( _Water Pressure in Bed-Stuy - anecdotal evidence)._ “Wow.”

“I know, right?” she says, totally missing his tone.

He shakes his head fondly, busying himself with unloading the food onto the coffee table while Amy gathers up the papers and clips them carefully into the binder. She’s so focussed on the paperwork, she doesn’t even stop to suggest that they should eat at the table. Oh boy. She’s in deep.

“So did you find us somewhere yet?” he asks, passing her a box of noodles.

“Are you kidding me? No, not yet,” she says, shaking her head. “This is just preliminary research.”

“Of course it is.”

“Actually…” she says slowly, mixing her noodles half-heartedly, not actually eating anything. “I would’ve done more but – uh – my mom came by.”

“Oh yeah?” He snaps open a new pair of chopsticks. Maybe a teensy bit violently. “The first day I wasn’t around? What a super crazy coincidence.”

“Jake, listen, I think she knows she reacted badly. It’s just that–”

“Ames, relax.” He knocks his knee lightly against hers. “I’m kidding.” He dips his head, shrugging. “Sort of.”

“We had a really good talk,” Amy says, setting down her food on the table. “I honestly think she gets it now.”

“Look, as long as you guys made up, I’m happy.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

It still stings, obviously, because he’s a stand-up guy who wants to make an honest woman out of Amy Santiago some day and it’d be awesome if her mom could understand that, but it’s not the end of the world. The end of the world was Amy, tired and hurting that day they came home, fighting with her mom. Over him. Because of him. The end of the world was her face when she asked him if he hated her. It was her thinking that could be true, even for a second.

He’s pretty sure he can handle anything in the entire world as long as it’s not that.

“I mean it, don’t even worry about me,” he goes on, turning towards her, holding her cautious gaze.

“But–”

“Your Mom hating me for a while sucks, but I’ve had worse.” He hisses in a breath, wishing he hadn’t just turned the conversation this way. But Amy’s frowning, her leg shaking restlessly against him, and he’s got to fix that. “Amy, look, Florida was …” he trails off, casting around for the right word to sum up three months of misery. “Awful. It was _awful._ I hated every second of every day I was there.”

Her face crumples. “Jake–”

“My point is, I am not there now,” he says, setting down his chopsticks and settling his hand heavy on her knee. “I’m home. I’m back at the Nine-Nine. That’s all I wanted. It’s _enough.”_

“Are you sure?”

“Are you _kidding_?” he counters, shaking his head at her. He picks up a chopstick, tapping it towards the binder sitting on the coffee table, filled with plans for their future. “I’ve got everything I want right here.”

“Aw.” Amy smiles at him, lighting right up, and Jake feels his lips lift in reply. “Me too.”

That choked feeling in his throat is probably just from all the chili in his food, right? Probably why his eyes are a little wet too.

“Anyway,” Amy says, shaking off the heavy moment, “forget about my mom. Tell me about your first day back.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to bum you out with–”

“Don’t be an idiot.” She swats her chopstick on his arm. “Jake, I want to know _everything_.”

He grins at her, won over in an instant by the eager smile on her face. “Okay, let’s see – first of all, I missed you like crazy all day. Let’s be clear about that.”

“Noted.”

“Charles cried like six separate times, for joy obviously. Someone messed with my chair settings while I was away. It’s made my posture so much better and I hate it.”

“Jake–”

“I know, I know, I’ll be glad when I’m not a hunched-over wreck at the age of forty.” He twirls his chopstick. “Um – what else – Rosa punched me and I couldn’t feel my arm for like most of the morning.”

“Oh! So her arm’s healed up okay then?”

“Getting there, she showed me the scar. It’s disgusting and it’s gonna be shaped like a lightning bolt when it’s healed. Oh, and for future ref – she does not respond well to being called Harry Potter.”

“That’s why she punched you, isn’t it?”

“I prefer to think it was an expression of joy at my return–”

“Jake.”

“Hundred percent, yes, it was all the Hogwarts references.”

“You’re unbelievable.” Amy rolls her eyes, the exact way he imagined she would if she’d been there when he was calling Rosa a total Slytherin. (Which, she so is by the way. No judgement! They’re not all bad.) “What else?”

It’s so ridiculously great just sitting here, eating takeout, talking about their day. It’s normal and boring and everything he missed while he was in Florida. And Amy’s smiling, like maybe she missed it just the same, and not for the first time Jake is reminded that she loves him the same way he loves her – down to the very last detail, and it’s the best thing in the world.

“What about the Captain?” Amy asks after a while, in a would-be casual voice. “Has he settled back okay? I made sure that no-one altered a single thing in his office while he was gone.”

“But you couldn’t keep an eye on my chair settings?!”

“Let it go, Jake.”

“Fine.” He crunches a peanut, obnoxiously loud. “The Captain’s doing great. It’s like he was never gone.”

“Aw, man. I wanna go back so bad,” Amy mutters, setting down her food. “I did so many of my physical therapy exercises today, I think I actually made things worse.”

“Amy! You gotta take it easy!” he scolds, frowning at her as she rolls her shoulder cautiously. “Focus on things you _can_ do. Like the super important project of finding us a new place–”

“Jake.” She rolls her eyes. “Distracting me isn’t gonna work–”

“Uhhh, it totally is,” he says, flashing her a smile. “I know you, Amy Santiago, which means I know you’re dying to show me all this stuff. So … c’mon.”

“You’re sure?”

“Gimme the deets, sweets.”

She holds a cautious look for all of ten seconds before caving completely. “Okay!” She heaves the binder up and puts it on his lap. “Now, like I said, this is just preliminary research…”

It’s … not at all preliminary. Like, if Amy thinks this is preliminary research, he doesn’t ever want to see detail.

“Utilities, crime rates, community facilities,” he recites, flicking through the first few pages. “Wow, Ames–”

“Oh, ignore that. That’s my stuff,” she says, batting his hand away and turning over to a purple tab a few sheets back. “This is for you.”

“Takeout delivery area mapping, wifi signal strength, hipster saturation levels…”

This girl, though.

_This girl._

“This is amazing.” He turns to her, beaming. “What would I do without you?”

He means it lightly. Just a sweet little joke. No big deal. It lands a little differently, far heavier than he intended, and far too close to the reality that they’ve been living this past summer. Amy takes a sharp intake of breath, reaching for his hand, holding on tight enough for her nails to dig into his skin.

“Jake.” She says his name softly, so much weight to those four little letters, and he feels his breath catch, his heartbeat fluttering in his chest. “Don’t even say that.”

“Right. Sorry.” He forces a laugh. “Too soon for jokes! Got it.”

He turns a few pages randomly, because if he looks at her right now he might cry, or say something stupid like, ‘ _Marry me_.’ Which is objectively not stupid because that’s totally all he wants in the entire world, but it’s stupid for right now. He doesn’t have a ring yet. Or an elaborate plan. Or words. He talks and talks and talks and somehow he’s just got no words to tell her how much she means to him. No words to ask her to be by his side like this, every night forever.

When his eyes land on a page near the back of the binder, his heart actually stops. “Pre-school districts?” Like, if his life was a medical drama he would be the dramatic flatline on the monitor right now. “You want–”

“Oh, n–no!” Amy takes his wide eyes for panic, and snatches up the binder quickly. “Not like – not now or anything” she says quickly, slamming the binder closed. “Just …” She scratches awkwardly at her neck, like she’s allergic to this conversation. “Y’know … eventually. Maybe.”

“Eventually.” He turns right round in his seat to look at her – really look at her. She’s embarrassed, her cheeks flooded with color, but her jaw is set, totally unrepentant. She’s standing by this. She _means_ it. “Amy Santiago, are you saying you want to have my babies?”

She rolls her eyes and opens her mouth before closing it abruptly, swallowing down whatever glib retort she was going to make. “Yes,” she says plainly, a challenge gleaming in her eyes. “I want to have your babies.”

_Oh._

Well.

That’s –

“Awesome,” he says, in a voice that’s shrill and high and not at all cool and collected, which he definitely needs to work on for when they have kids because he’s totally planning to be a supremely cool dad who isn’t fazed by anything. How hard can that be? “Me too.”

Amy takes his hand, smiling softly. “You’re gonna be _such_ a great dad one day, Jake.”

 _Not like your dad._ She doesn’t say it, doesn’t have to. He hears it all the same, feels it in the way she’s holding his hand right now, her fingers sure and strong, not trembling at all. Amy Santiago – self confessed disaster with kids – isn’t afraid of having babies, with their soft heads and their squirming little bodies, so long as it’s with him. Woah.

“We’re gonna need a bigger binder,” he says, arching an eyebrow at her.

She bursts out laughing, and it’s his favorite sound in the universe and she’s his favorite person in the universe, so he does the only thing that makes any sense – he leans over and kisses her. The binder drops from her lap and thuds to the floor.

“We don’t – we don’t have to have them, like, right now though,” Amy says through a laugh, as he starts tugging at the hem of her t-shirt. “Jake?”

“No, no, I know,” he agrees, still tugging at her clothes, desperate to feel more of her skin, to kiss that spot where her pulse flutters at her neck. “Right now, we’re gonna use those extremely well reviewed condoms you bought us.”

“Oh! Okay then,” she says, shoving his hoodie off his shoulder. “They did get an average of five stars.”

He laughs against her lips. “You are unbelievable.”

\--

 **From: Amy Santiago** [4:11 PM]

Daytime TV sucks

 **To: Amy Santiago** [4:15 PM]

categorically untrue

 **From: Amy Santiago** [4:15 PM]

I’m so bored and I’ve only been out NINE days

How did you cope all summer?

 **To: Amy Santiago** [4:15 PM]

i didn’t

Larry was a hot mess

 **To: Amy Santiago** [4:15 PM]

but you got this!

just a few more days :)

 **From: Amy Santiago** [4:15 PM]

I need to come back to work NOW!!

 **To: Amy Santiago** [4:16 PM]

ok it was gonna be a surprise but clearly you need cheering up SO

… I’m bringing you something home from the precinct 

 **To: Amy Santiago** [4:17 PM]

you’re gonna love it 

 **From: Amy Santiago** [4:17 PM]

It better not be a case file

 **To: Amy Santiago** [4:17 PM]

… it might be

 **From: Amy Santiago** [4:18 PM]

JAKE NO

 **To: Amy Santiago** [4:18 PM]

JAKE YES

 **From: Amy Santiago** [4:19 PM]

JACOB PERALTA

You know it’s against regulations to take files home

 **From: Amy Santiago** [4:19 PM]

Breaking rules will not cheer me up and you know it

 

 **To: Amy Santiago** [4:20 PM]

hear me out

I swear you’ll want to see this one 

 **To: Amy Santiago** [4:20 PM]

pls pls pls 

 **From: Amy Santiago** [4:20 PM]

You will not convince me...

 **To: Amy Santiago** [4:21 PM]

We’ll see!! 

 **To: Amy Santiago** [4:22 PM]

So … it’s a murder

Vic – mid 50s, male, lived alone

 **From: Amy Santiago** [4:22 PM]

zzzzzzz

  **To: Amy Santiago** [4:22 PM]

Wait for it!

 **To: Amy Santiago** [4:22 PM]

body was found in a room …

LOCKED FROM THE INSIDE!!!!!!!!!

 **From: Amy Santiago** [4:23 PM]

GIMME

 

\--

Now that he’s home – back to work, back to waking up next to Amy every morning – Jake’s daydreams get a little smaller.

But no less epic, obviously.

In Florida, it was all about slapping the cuffs on Figgis in the middle of an abandoned fairground, or a private aircraft hangar, or halfway up the scaffold on a dusty construction project. It was gritting his teeth and making a tourniquet out of his tie, because he might be bleeding out but Amy Santiago was running to him and damn it, he was gonna pick her up and twirl her around before seeking medical attention.

When Jake thinks of Figgis now, he just imagines him in court, small and washed out and pathetic in the same faded orange jumpsuit that a hundred other low life scumbags have squeezed their butts into. He still looks a bit like Chris Noth in this particular scenario because Jake has seen the mugshots now and actually there is kind of a resemblance, except that the real Figgis is taller and thinner and much less likely to ever win Sarah Jessica Parker’s heart.

Figgis has a bajillion consecutive life sentences coming his way (even if the Captain keeps insisting that a bajillion is not a numerical value used by the judiciary) but Jake’s not quite settled on the perfect zinger for when he gets taken down. Whatever Jake chooses, it’s definitely going to end with, _‘see you never, dawg,’_ because that’s some poetic full circle stuff right there.

That’s the dream now – not explosions or cars flipping over or made up characters with tragic backstories – just sitting beside Amy Santiago in a courtroom and watching Figgis go to jail forever. Then preferably going home and having that life-affirming break-the-furniture sex that Amy’s doctor was talking about.

“That’s it?” Charles asks, when Jake tells him about it. (The Figgis part, not the sex part. They gotta have some boundaries.) They’re sitting in his car on a long stakeout, bored and tired and cold, and Charles was obviously expecting something more. “You just want Figgis to go to jail?”

“Uhh, yeah,” Jake says, shooting him a look. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Charles says, though he still looks worried. “It’s just … your fantasies used to be a little more–”

“Implausible?”

“Spectacular.” Charles turns in his seat so he’s looking right at him. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Jake says, holding Boyle’s gaze so he knows he really means it. “It’s just – I mean I _lived_ a made up character for three months, Charles.”

Charles looks like he might cry. “Oh.”

“So right now, y’know, I’m pretty happy with just being myself.” Jake puts on his movie announcer voice, warming to the theme. “Jake Peralta: hotshot New York Cop. Recently returned from a summer in exile, separated from the job _and_ the woman he loves.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“You should write that movie.”

“Thanks, buddy.” Jake roots around in his bag of chips, finding it empty, and then settles his eyes back on their target, a door that no-one has entered or exited in the four hours they’ve been sitting here. After a few minutes, he says, “Although, I would maybe tweak the character a little bit–”

“I knew it!” Jake can practically _hear_ the smile in Boyle’s voice. “Tell me.”

Jake blows out a breath, fiddling with the window controls for something to do. “Just … it’d be cool if the hotshot cop’s super hot girlfriend, who also happens to be a hotshot cop, could maybe be back at work with him. Or something.”

“Missing Amy?” Charles says at once, somehow navigating the nonsense that Jake just said and getting right to the heart of things. Honestly, Jake doesn’t know how. He’s not sure _he_ even knew where he was going with that.

“I’m not like, _missing her_ -missing her,” Jake says, waving a hand. “I mean, Florida ... that was missing her. I just – I don’t like being back at work when she’s not. It doesn’t feel right.”

Major understatement alert. Actually, it feels completely and utterly _wrong._ Her cases are going to other people and her computer monitor is getting dusty, and damn it, she’s really going to hate that. He should tell her to bring a lint-free cloth in on her first day back, but this is Amy Santiago, so there’s probably like three in her purse already.

Jake is losing about an hour every day just imagining her sitting back across the desk from him again, her hair pulled up into a ponytail, sorting her case files into a neat pile. The epic slow-motion reunion that filled his summer has been shoved aside, replaced with a hundred smaller daydreams that are actually so much bigger, in their own way. Amy in the elevator beside him in the mornings. Amy on a long stakeout, her hair falling out of a bun, stale coffee on her breath. Amy. Amy. Amy. Sensible pantsuits and chunky heeled boots and maybe, one day, the glint of a gold ring on her finger as she types up an arrest report.

“I just – I don’t feel like I’m really back until she is too, y’know?” Jake says, nodding covertly to the car that’s holding the relief team as it slowly cruises past them and pulls into position. “I know that’s dumb.”

“It’s not,” Charles says, hitting the ignition and peeling the car away from the kerb. “Jake, your love is so pure.”

“Okay,” Jake says, propping his arm up on the window, “don’t make it weird.”

While Charles drives back to the precinct, Jake calls Amy, getting her voicemail every time. In the parking lot, he finally gives up and just leaves her a message. (“Hey! You’re not answering your phone so you can’t veto pizza again tonight. I’ll be home in like a half hour. With pizza. Boom! Nothing you can do about it.”)

He’s a little distracted in the elevator, so much so that he doesn’t ever bother to object to Boyle’s suggestion that broccoli as a pizza topping is a total revelation that he just has to try. His mind is totally elsewhere – already in their apartment, where Amy is waiting, probably super grumpy about not being at work because her shoulder is pretty much healed now. He heads into the bullpen, thinking about cornering Holt for a few minutes before he heads home, see if he get him to knock a few heads in Occupational Health and speed up that appointment Amy needs.

“Woah, woah,” Gina says, when he heads towards the Captain’s closed door. “Captain’s in a super important meeting, Jake. No interruptions.”

“Oh.” Jake falters, pausing at Gina’s desk instead. “Who’s he with?”

Gina shrugs, not looking up. “I don’t know.”

“How long will he be?”

“Also don’t know.”

“Perfect.” Jake huffs, turning away and heading towards his desk to collect his things.

The first indication that something’s up is Amy’s monitor. It’s clean. Like, _clean–_ clean.

Amy Santiago clean.

Jake freezes, sweeping his eyes over the room for more evidence, just like he would at a crime scene. And – ha! There it is. All the empty food containers on his desk are gone. That’s better than a fingerprint.

“Amy’s in there, isn’t she?” He swivels back to Gina, jerking his head to Holt’s closed door. Excitement shoots through him, electrifying every single nerve. “What’s happening? Is she coming back? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“Because it’s meant to be a surprise, dum-dum,” Rosa says, coming up to stand alongside him. She shoots him a look, the barest hint of a smile breaking through her glare. “So act surprised, okay?”

“Won’t be a problem for me,” Charles puts in, looking as excited as Jake feels. If not a little bit more, actually. “I _am_ surprised. Nobody told me anything.”

“Yeah, sorry, Boyle,” Terry says, getting up to join them. “We just didn’t think you could keep a secret from Jake.”

“Oh I absolutely couldn’t,” Charles agrees, nodding. “Excellent call.”

“So aside from Charles,” Jake says, rounding on them all, “you all knew about this?”

“Uh, I didn’t,” Gina says.

Rosa frowns. “Yeah, you did.”

“Oh, then I just wasn’t listening,” Gina says, shrugging. “My bad.”

“It was the Captain’s idea,” Terry explains, nodding to the close door of Holt’s office. “He cooked it up with Santiago. They didn’t want to get your hopes up if the docs wouldn’t sign her back to work just yet.”

“But they did sign her back though, right? I mean – it’s all okay?”

“Oh for sure,” Rosa says, nodding. “I’ve never seen Santiago as happy as when she came in just now.” She cocks her head, considering. “Except maybe when we knew you were coming home.”

“Wow.” Jake beams around at all of them, his weird, irreplaceable family, who did this thing for him for no gain of their own, no purpose other than to protect him if the news wasn’t good, to make him happy if it was. “You guys …”

Before he can find the appropriate word for how phenomenally awesome the squad are, the door to Holt’s office swings open and there she is – Detective Amy Santiago. Reigning Queen of the Nine-Nine. (Yeah, okay, and of his heart too.)

“Attention, Squad,” Holt says, pausing in his doorway.

When everybody turns to look at the Captain, Jake just keeps looking at Amy. She’s swapped the sweats she was wearing when he left this morning for a pair of smart grey pants and a pale pink blouse that’s perfectly matched to the rosy glow on her cheeks. When she flashes him a triumphant smirk, Jake just shakes his head at her, his eyes narrowing because she tricked him and it’s awesome and also because he’s smiling so freaking wide right now that squinting is kind of unavoidable.

“Detective Santiago has been officially cleared for duty,” Holt goes on, flashing a rare, wide smile at them all. “She’ll rejoin us officially as of tomorrow morning.”

When everyone starts to applaud, it occurs to Jake that he’s all the way across the room from Amy right now, and that is just the craziest, dumbest thing in the world. He starts to move towards her just as she moves to him and halfway across the ten paces between them he realises that this is it – this is his moment. This is his chance.

This is as close as he’s going to get to running into Amy Santiago’s arms.

He sees the exact moment the realisation lands with Amy too, watches as the idea sparks to life behind her bright eyes. Then suddenly she’s smiling at him, and it’s wider and brighter and better than anything he’s ever seen in his entire life, and oh, that decides it.

This. Is. Happening.

He picks up the pace a little, hurrying towards her, literally living the dream right now.

Well, almost.

It’s not exactly like he imagined, obviously. They’re not at the airport, and they’re not technically reuniting unless you count the fact that they’ve been apart since he went out to work this morning. He’s not really running and there’s no soaring soundtrack, just the squad’s applause and the shrill beep of the copier jamming somewhere in the background.

And okay, it’s also not in slow motion because Amy’s totally right, that doesn’t remotely exist in real life.

When he reaches her, Jake doesn’t sweep her into his arms right away like he imagined he would. Instead he pauses, just for a second, letting the moment hang there, letting his smile grow and grow and grow until finally he takes that last pace forward and wraps his arms around her. He ducks his head to her neck and breathes in deeply, taking in her perfume and the fresh scent of her fabric softener. Then Amy laughs softly, throwing her arms around his neck, and finally – _finally –_ he picks her up and swings her round.

Almost.

Because wow, picking up another human being is actually kind of difficult. Maybe that’s why there’s never a pause in the movies before the hero picks up the girl. Like, it’s a momentum thing? Or maybe he’s just super unfit. Either way, it’s not quite the sweeping swinging hug he imagined, it’s more like he lifts her off her feet and kind of sways there, just for a second, while Amy shrieks in delight and/or terror into his shoulder.

When he finally sets her down, she’s blushing and beaming and god, so beautiful right now it’s unreal. Like, how is this his life? Joy wells up in his chest, until it feels like he can’t possibly contain it all, like he’s gonna throw up rainbows all over the place.

Before he can decide if she wouldn’t mind him kissing her in front of the entire team, Amy surges up onto her tiptoes and presses her lips to his, soft and insistent and just the wrong side of chaste for polite company. Jake stumbles back a pace, recovering quickly and kissing her back as the rest of squad explode into cheers and possibly, in Charles’ case, tears.

When they separate Jake rests his forehead against hers for a long moment, holding his breath for a count of ten, until he’s sure he’s memorised every last second of the past few minutes. The squeak of his shoes on the precinct floor as he hurried towards her. The cool satin of Amy’s blouse under his hands. The exact timbre of her laugh. And yeah, the fact that he maybe almost dropped her for a second back there.

He opens his eyes slowly, pulling back a little and laughing as Amy starts to wince, a blush spreading over her cheeks as she flicks her gaze at the assembled crowd of their friends, like she’s only just remembered they’re not alone. Jake grins at her embarrassment, scrunching up his whole face like he’s looking at the sun, and then he steps back a little, turning to face the squad.

“Shaw’s?” he suggests blithely, ignoring their knowing grins.

“Drinks are on me,” the Captain puts in, drawing another cheer.

“Nine-Nine!” Amy calls out and if Jake loves it when everyone chants that, he loves it all the more when everyone chants it back for Amy. She gets this pleased little smile on her face, like a kid who just won a prize at the fair, and it’s the sweetest thing ever.

He throws his arm over her shoulder, turning to press a kiss to her cheek as they head for the elevator.

“Oh, hey, wait,” she says, slowing. “I almost forgot! I had a thought about your locked room murderer.”

“No way.” He stops dead, looking over at her. “Go.”

“Well,” she says, and he follows as she shrugs out from under his arm and heads towards her desk. “I was doing some research on that list of tenants you showed me and get this, about five years ago someone called Nate Anderson owned a business that went under just a few blocks south of the building.”

“Wasn’t one of the dead guy’s neighbors–”

“Nathaniel Anderson,” Amy supplies, slipping into her chair and firing up her computer. “I think it’s the same guy.”

“Okay.” Jake sits down at his own desk, sparing a hot second to appreciate Amy sitting across from him again at last because – wow. Dreams coming true all over the place right now. “But what does that have to do with the murder?”

“Oh,” Amy says, peeking around her computer to flash him a triumphant smile. “Because he was a locksmith.”

Jake’s jaw drops. “No way.”

“Yes way.”

“That’s it!” he says, throwing his hands up. “He’s gotta be our perp.”

“Right? Like, he could totally have the skill to make that room seem locked from the inside.”

“Okay, you try and find the registered address for the locksmith business,” Jake says, turning on his own computer. “See if it matches Anderson’s address and I’ll–”

“Hey, aren’t you guys coming?” Gina calls, and Jake looks up to find the rest of the squad waiting at the exit gate for the bullpen. “Shaw’s, remember? Your idea.”

“Oh – uh …” Jake shrugs at Amy, who just shrugs back at him in silent agreement. God, he loves this girl. “We’ll catch you guys up later. Murders to solve, y’know?”

“Have fun, you guys!” Charles says, as everybody files out towards the elevators. It’s kind of weird sentiment when they’re talking about a murder except that it’s not because this is Charles and he’s way over-invested in Jake and Amy doing anything at all together. Including solving murders. Also, Jake’s pretty sure this actually is going to be fun. So much fun.

“What?” Amy says, catching him staring at her.

“Nothing,” he says, turning his attention back to his computer. For like a second. Then he slides his eyes right back to her, grinning so wide that his cheeks start to hurt. “Just – _we’re back,_ y’know?”

“Yeah,” Amy says, smiling softly at him. “I know.”

“So...” he says, leaning back in his chair until it reclines a little. There are coffee stains on the ceiling and he has no idea how they got there, and this spot right here … this is home. He’s home. “Let’s catch a bad guy, Detective Santiago.”

“Okay, Detective Peralta,” she says, voice soft on his name, the way he loves. “Let’s do this.”

That’s the thing about real life – there’s no fade to black after the happy ending. So while his fantasies always ended on that one high note, Amy laughing in his arms, real life just keeps on going.

Jake thinks that’s just about the best thing ever, actually.

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you thank you to everyone has been overwhelmingly nice about this story. 
> 
> Honestly, the entire thing started with the idea for that one gag where Amy's injured and Jake has to wash to her hair and he's trying not to find it sexy. Next thing I knew, this was the longest fic I'd ever written and it featured a sex scene in the form of what the kids call a "listicle". I don't even know what happened.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr with the same username. Please do come yell at me about how great this show is anytime.


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